Chapter 97
There’s a pause. “Why would you need-”
A knock at the door.
My heart stops.
“I’ll call you back,” I hiss, and end the call, shoving the phone under my pillow just as the door opens.
It’s Alaric.
Of course it’s Alaric.
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He looks stressed, exhausted, his hair disheveled like he’s been running his hands through it repeatedly. There’s tension in every line of his body, the weight of his pack’s safety pressing down on him like a physical thing.
“Why haven’t you unpacked yet?” he asks, but there’s no accusation in it. Just curiosity. Concern.
Because I’m planning to fake my death and disappear, and unpacking feels a little pointless under the circumstances.
I don’t say that, obviously.
Instead, I watch as he crosses the room and sinks down onto the bed with a heavy sigh, and despite everything–despite the anger and the betrayal and the plan currently taking shape in my mind–my heart aches for him.
I sit down beside him, taking his face in my hands and turning it toward me. “What’s wrong?”
He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “What’s wrong? My pack is under attack, I’ve got casualties at the northern border, and I need to leave–probably tomorrow–to go remind these fuckers why no one attacks the Imperial Pack.”
“So go.” I keep my voice gentle, coaxing. “Show them who their King is.”
He turns to look at me fully, and there’s something almost childish in his expression. Vulnerable. “I don’t want to leave you.”
Oh fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.
“Alaric-”
“I know, I know, it sounds ridiculous.” He runs a hand through his hair again. “I’m the fucking Alpha King. I should be chomping at the bit to go to war, to destroy anyone who dares challenge me. But now that we’ve confirmed the bond. eyes are intense, desperate. “I don’t want to be away from you for even a second.”
His
This is it. This is my opening. If he goes to war, if he leaves, it gives me/time. Time to execute the plan, to disappear before he comes back.
I need to convince him. I need to baby him just enough, stroke his ego just enough, to send him off to battle while I arrange my own death.
I’m a terrible person. I’m the worst person.
I do it anyway.
“Baby.” I shift closer, running my fingers through his hair soothingly. “You’re the King. The Alpha King. These people- whoever they are–they need to be reminded of that. They need to see your power, your dominance. They need to remember why no one fucks with what’s yours.” I lean in, pressing my forehead to his. “And I’ll be here. Waiting for you. Safe in your territory.”
10:49 Wed, Jan 21 J
Chapter 97
Lies. All lies.
“Yeah?” His voice is soft, hopeful. “You’ll wait for me?”
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A tear slips down my cheek before I can stop it, because I’m about to deliver the biggest lie of my life and it tastes like poison.
“Of course I will.”
His eyes search mine, looking for the truth I’m desperately trying to hide. Then, slowly, his expression shifts into something else. Something almost… excited.
“Do you want to know why I took you on this vacation?”
I blink, surprised by the sudden shift in conversation. “Why?”
He stands up abruptly, taking my hand and pulling me with him. “Come on. I want to show you something.”
We walk through the corridors of the estate, past the main rooms and common areas, until we reach a wing I don’t remember seeing before. It’s quieter here, more secluded, far enough from the center of the pack’s chaos that it feels like a different world entirely.
Alaric stops in front of a door at the end of the hall and turns to me with an expression I can’t quite read.
“Close your eyes.”
“Are you serious?”
“Come on. Humor me.”
I sigh but comply, letting him guide me forward. I hear the door open, feel the immediate change in air temperature- warmer, somehow, and brighter even through my closed eyelids.
“Okay,” he says softly. “Open.”
I do.
And I fucking forget how to breathe.
It’s an art studio.
My art studio.
The room is enormous, with floor–to–ceiling windows that let in floods of golden afternoon sunlight. There’s a balcony beyond the glass, overlooking what looks like private gardens. The walls are lined with storage–brushes, paints, canvases stacked neatly in the corner. An easel stands in the center, positioned perfectly to catch the light.
But what breaks me–what absolutely fucking shatters me–is the artwork.
My paintings.
Every single piece I created back in the Woodridge Pack, carefully transported and hung on these walls like they’re precious things. Like they matter. Like I matter.
“They only needed a few days to build this,” Alaric says from behind me, his voice quiet. “While we were in the Bahamas. I wanted it to be ready when we got back. I wanted it to feel familiar, so I had someone retrieve your paintings from Woodridge and bring them here.”
I can’t speak. Can’t think. Can barely process what I’m seeing..
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10:49 Wed, Jan 21
Chapter 97
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He did this. For me. While planning our future together, completely unaware that I’m planning to destroy it.
My legs carry me forward without conscious thought, and I’m touching everything–running my fingers along the clean brushes, the tubes of paint arranged by color, the smooth surface of blank canvases waiting to be filled.
I grab a container of maroon paint–deep, rich, the color of old blood–and dip my fingers directly into it. The texture is familiar, grounding. I drag my paint–covered hand across a blank canvas, leaving streaks of color in my wake, and for one brief moment, everything else falls away.
This is who I am. This is what I do.
I turn back to Alaric, who’s watching me with an expression so full of love and pride it physically hurts.
“I could kiss you right now,” I say, and I mean it.
Then I walk back to him, my paint–covered hand still dripping, and drag it across his cheek. The maroon bleeds into his skin, marking him, claiming him in the way he’s always claimed me.
His eyes darken.
“Fuck the unpacking,” he growls, and then his mouth is on mine.
The kiss is desperate, consuming, and I kiss him back with everything I have because this is it. This is the last time. The last time I get to taste him, touch him, pretend we have a future.
He backs me up against the desk in the corner, and with one sweep of his arm, everything on its surface–papers, pencils, a jar of brushes–goes crashing to the floor.
I should stop this. Should pull away. Should remember that I’m supposed to be executing a plan, maintaining distance, preparing to fake my death.
But his hands are on my hips, my back, tangling in my hair, and his mouth is leaving a trail of fire down my neck, and I’m drowning in sensation, in him, in the knowledge that soon–very soon–this will all be a memory.
Maybe one painting before I leave this place, I think distantly as he lifts me onto the desk. One last piece of art before I become something else entirely. Before I become a ghost.
His lips find mine again, and the world narrows to this moment–sunlight streaming through windows, paint drying on our skin, the taste of goodbye neither of us knows we’re experiencing.
And as his hands slide under my shirt, as my fingers dig into his shoulders hard enough to bruise, as we lose ourselves in each other one final time, I think:
This is how I’ll remember you. Here, in this room you built for me. In this moment before everything burns.
The sun continues its descent outside the windows, painting the studio in shades of amber and gold and blood–red.
And somewhere in the distance, a phone buzzes with an unanswered call.
With questions that will have to wait.
With a plan that’s already in motion.
Cedella is a passionate storyteller known for her bold romantic and spicy novels that keep readers hooked from the very first chapter. With a flair for crafting emotionally intense plots and unforgettable characters, she blends love, desire, and drama into every story she writes. Cedella’s storytelling style is immersive and addictive—perfect for fans of heated romances and heart-pounding twists.