The next morning, he was already awake.
Or perhaps he had never slept at all.
He sat on the sofa in yesterday’s clothes, shoulders slightly hunched, dark shadows beneath his eyes. His hair was faintly disordered, and there was tension in the line of his jaw, as though he had spent the night stewing in irritation rather than resting.
The moment he saw me step out of my room, he straightened.
“You’re awake,” he said. “I reserved passage to Blightmoor. You once said you wanted to go there, didn’t you? I’ll accompany you. Ask for leave from the hall today.”
His tone was almost casual, as though nothing had happened the night before. As though bringing Rosalie into our home, arguing at the door, and leaving me to shut myself away had been nothing more than a passing inconvenience.
“I cannot go,” I replied.
His brows tightened immediately.
“Are you still angry?” he asked, impatience creeping into his voice. “Selene, we’re already betrothed. We are not some young wolves in courtship. Must you be so childish?”
I said nothing.
I only looked at him quietly.
Then, very suddenly, a realization came with startling clarity.
When I argued, I was wrong.
When I stayed silent, I was wrong.
When I yielded, it was expected.
When I resisted, it was unreasonable.
No matter what I did, I was always the one expected to bend.
Perhaps the mistake had never been in my words at all.
Perhaps the mistake was loving him.
“Fine,” he exhaled at last, as though granting me a concession. “My fault, then. Is that enough?”
I shook my head faintly.
“You did nothing wrong,” I said calmly. “And I am not angry. Let us not speak of it anymore.”
I moved past him and went to the hearth to make coffee.
The kettle took time to warm, and the quiet stretched between us. I picked up my phone and opened Instagram, more out of habit than interest.
Rosalie had posted again.
The image showed her holding Lucian’s racing trophy against her cheek, her expression soft and gentle, as though she were cradling something precious. The lamplight behind her made the metal gleam faintly.
Below it, she had written:
[Sleeping peacefully beside Lucian’s most cherished possession.]
It was not the same account I had blocked yesterday.
This was a different one.
I opened the profile and saw we had never even exchanged a message. I could not remember when she had followed me—or when I had accepted.
For a moment, I only stared at the image.
Then I set the phone down.
There was no need to block her again.
I remembered too clearly the day I had moved that very trophy while cleaning. It had been sitting near the edge of the shelf, and I had only lifted it to wipe the dust beneath.
Lucian had walked in at that exact moment.
He had stopped cold.
Then his face darkened in a way I had never seen before.
“Who told you to touch that?” he had asked sharply.
I had been startled, apologizing at once, explaining that I was only cleaning. But he had taken the trophy from my hands with visible displeasure, setting it back in place himself as though I might damage it simply by holding it.
Back then, I had blamed myself.
I had thought I had crossed some boundary without realizing.
Now, it seemed the rule had never been that no one could touch it.
Only that I could not.
How ridiculous.
I used to tell myself that love required patience, understanding, and sacrifice. I had smoothed over every sharp edge until I could pretend it no longer hurt.
But love and indifference had never looked alike.
I had only been too blind to tell them apart.
“Selene,” Lucian said, watching me carefully, clearly displeased by my calm. “I know I shouldn’t have left that day. But it was a matter of life and death.”
Life and death.
The words sounded hollow now.
I picked up my phone again, opened Rosalie’s post, enlarged the image, and turned the screen toward him.
“Life and death is one thing,” I said quietly. “Then what is this?”
His expression shifted slightly.
“Lucian,” I continued softly, a faint trace of mockery threading through my voice, “do you remember the day you shouted at me for touching your first racing trophy?”
I held his gaze.
“Do you remember what you said to me back then?”
