April POV:
The first rays of dawn painted the kitchen in pale, unforgiving light.
Every muscle ached.
After what felt like an eternity, he had been half-dragged, half-wrestled to the lumpy sofa in the living room. The rest of the night was spent in the armchair opposite him, too wired and too sore to sleep.
A low groan escaped him.
Long eyelashes fluttered against his cheekbones. A hand came to his forehead, brow furrowed in pain. The hangover.
Then, his eyes opened.
The hazy confusion from last night was gone. In its place was the familiar, sharp clarity of ice. His gaze met mine, and for a split second, there was a flicker of something—confusion, memory—before it was instantly shuttered.
A sudden, abrupt sit-up, the movement so fast it made me flinch. Then he scooted back, away from me, as if my proximity was physically repulsive. As if I were a disease.
The action was a slap in the face.
It hurt more than any angry words could. The desperate, possessive man from last night was gone, replaced by this cold, distant stranger.
Those eyes swept the room, taking in his own wrinkled clothes, the disarray. His jaw tightened. That was his tell. The tightening of that sharp, perfect jawline meant he was angry. Or annoyed. With him, it was hard to tell the difference.
"You were drunk last night." My voice came out quiet. No mention of the near-marking. Couldn't.
His gaze snapped to mine, cold and hard. "I remember." The voice was a dry, raspy whisper. "Whatever I said, whatever I did, forget it."
The words hung in the air between us.
"Forget it?" A bitter, incredulous laugh bubbled in my throat.
Then he was on his feet, towering over me. A caged animal, pacing the small confines of the living room, radiating tense, irritable energy.
The pacing stopped. Those eyes, sharp as shards of glass, fixed on me. "April, we need to talk about our arrangement."
The heart sank. That tone. It was his business voice. The same one he'd used when he first brought me here, after the elders declared us fated mates.
He had laid it out like a corporate merger. He would provide for me, a roof over my head, but we would have separate rooms. We would maintain a respectful distance. There would be no marking, no intimacy, until we both felt "ready."
It wasn't a courtship. It was a contract.
"I thought... last night..." The voice trailed off.
"Last night was a mistake." The words cut in, merciless. But those eyes weren't looking at me when he said it. They were fixed somewhere over my shoulder, on nothing. "It was the alcohol. It wasn't me. I apologize for my lack of control."
His apology was worse than an accusation. It dismissed everything. The Adam's apple bobbed, as if he was swallowing not just whiskey, but some bitter truth he would never share. It erased the raw, terrifying honesty of his touch, the desperate claim of his voice. It made it all meaningless.
"A mistake." The word tasted like ash. "That's all I am to you, isn't it? A mistake the Moon Goddess made. A mistake the elders forced on you. A mistake you're stuck with until you figure out how to get rid of me."
No denial. Just that jaw, tightening further, a muscle jumping beneath the skin. Silence. Heavy and damning.
The sting in my eyes was fought back with rapid blinks. No tears. Not in front of him. The chin lifted, meeting his cold gaze with a defiance not truly felt.
"Fine." Steady. Surprisingly steady. "I understand, Mr. Blackwood. Was your 'test' satisfactory?"
The formal name was used on purpose—a weapon, a way to wound him just as he had wounded me.
His pupils contracted slightly. A flicker of something in those eyes—annoyance, maybe even hurt—gone in an instant. He hated when I called him that. It drew a line in the sand that he himself had created.
A hand reached into the pocket of his jeans, pulling out his wallet. A sleek, black credit card was extracted and placed on the coffee table between us.
"This is for you." Flat. Emotionless. "Buy whatever you need."
The gesture was so dismissive, so transactional, it ignited a fire in my chest. A payment. A bribe to forget. A way to wash his hands of me and his "mistake."
The card sat there, a symbol of the chasm between us.
"I don't need your charity." Low now, shaking with anger. "I'll get a job. I'll make my own money."
He looked at me—at the stubborn set of my jaw—and a flash of irritation crossed his face. This wasn't following his script. Gratitude was expected. Or at least compliance.
The card was picked back up, slid into his wallet. His tone softened, but only marginally. Still hard. Still distant.
"I have to go into the city today. Take care of yourself."
Without another glance, he turned and walked to his bedroom, closing the door behind him. The click of the latch wasn't loud, but it sounded like a vault sealing shut, locking me out completely.
Staring at that closed door, the fight drained away, leaving a hollow, exhausted shell behind.
This whirlwind "mating" had been nothing but a series of boundaries and tests. No warmth, no romance. Just suspicion and distance.
The armchair swallowed me as I sank into it, face buried in my hands. The smell of stale whiskey and cheap perfume still lingered in the air, a phantom reminder of the night before.
A deep, shuddering breath. No tears.
He would not break me.
He wanted distance? He would get it. He wanted me to be independent? Then the most independent woman he had ever met was what I would become.
No one to rely on but myself.
The mating bond hummed in my chest, a heartstring tied to a moving target. But it could be ignored. It had to be.
From this moment on, Donovan Blackwood could go freeze in his own ice castle. No more trying to warm a man who was determined to stay cold.
