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She should’ve chosen me.

I was the first one she reached for when the haze hit, when the fear crested. It was my voice that steadied her, my scent she curled into first.

I didn’t cross the line. I didn’t take advantage. I didn’t touch.

I showed restraint.

And this is the thanks I get?

Ashgets a cuddle pass?

Somewhere between the north and south wings, there’s probably a council of goddamn alpha clowns trading her shirts like it’s the draft round of some intimate bonding Olympics, and meanwhile, I’m here playing Chopin for Sad Bastards.

My fists clench in my lap.

The worst part isn’t that she chose someone else tonight.

It’s that through it all, I still feel her.

That thread. Taut. Quiet. Still pulling.

Not desperate. Not demanding. Just… there.

Like she’s dreaming of me. Or needing me without knowing it.

Or maybe she does know it, and she’s just keeping me at arm’s length.

Because she knows I don’t share. That Ican’t.

That if she says my name,reallysays it, I’ll go in that room and I won’t come out until every other scent has been overwritten by mine.

Marked. Bound. Finished.

And if I can’t have her that way? Entirely?

Then I’ll have nothing.

That’s the difference between me and them - they’re all fine being part of the picture. But me?

I built the goddamn frame.

So I sit in my silence, in my fucking solarium, surrounded by glass and ghosts and vines that never got trimmed.

Because if I go in that room now - if I answer the call of that pull -

Then I won’t stop at just holding her, and none of us are ready for what happens if I stop pretending I’m above all this.

She’s not mine. Not yet. Maybe notever.

And if I can’t have all of her - if she’s really meant forall of us-

Then I’ll take what I can survive.

Which, right now, means nothing at all.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Rhea

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