Chapter 372
Third Person’s POV
The second Trista reached the pack boundary, Alistair’s gravelly voice cut through a mind-link directly to Abbott, “Get her out of here. Make sure no one catches her scent on the way out p>
A moment later, the two stood beside the mud-splattered heavy-duty SUV.
“Miss Holmes,” Abbott said softly, “I’ll be trailing you in my car to make sure you get back to your den safe and sound p>
“Did your Alpha get bitten while patrolling the border?” Trista asked out of nowhere, her gaze as sharp as a scalpel.
Abbott’s head snapped down. His muscles locked up instantly, and he went as silent as a stone wall.
Trista knew she’d smelled the truth.
She stared Abbott down, her voice taking on the professional authority of a high-tier healer. “How bad is it, Abbott? Don’t give me that PR garbage you feed the humans. Tell me the truth p>
Abbott glanced around cautiously, making sure no one was listening, before lowering his voice. “Miss Holmes, you know his temperament. He’s the spine of this territory. If he shows even a hint of weakness, the rogues lurking in the shadows will lunge for his throat in a heartbeat. He put a gag order on this—no one dares to breathe a word. I’m just the escort. Anything else… I really don’t know p>
Trista watched him for a long beat before pulling out her phone and handing it over. “Abbott, save my number. If the wolf inside him can’t hold on, call me. If Alistair wants to rip your throat out for it later, tell him it was my idea p>
They exchanged info, and Trista started her car, her mind racing.
If she was right, Alistair’s injury was at his core.
He wouldn’t let her get close because he was afraid that, as a healer, she’d see right through his crumbling Alpha facade.
What kind of trauma was so bad that he had to hide it from his own doctor?
The L.A. nights were always full of predatory violence.
Regardless of everything, Alistair had saved her life once. If Shadowfang was actually on the verge of collapse, she wasn’t going to let that old wolf bleed out in the dark alone.
On her way back, Trista got a call from Wynn and detoured to the Imperial Club.
The moment she stepped into the lobby, she saw Cassian coming down the stairs, surrounded by a small entourage.
He was tall and imposing, his sharp, custom suit accentuating the cold, elite Alpha aura that made him stand out even in a crowded club.
Their eyes met across the room. Trista didn’t blink; she simply stepped back to give him a wide berth.
Cassian signaled his assistants to go ahead and stepped down the last few stairs alone.
He stopped in front of Trista, his voice low and edged with a hint of an interrogation. “What are you doing here this late p>
Trista gave him a look she’d usually reserve for a total stranger-she didn’t even give him the courtesy of a word. She simply sidestepped him and headed upstairs.
Cassian froze, watching her cold, final departure.
For a second, he felt like an invisible wire was tightening around his heart, digging into the flesh. He felt so suffocated he could barely stand.
Now, she didn’t even think he was worth a polite brush-off.
A few minutes later, Humphrey hurried over and whispered, “Alpha Cassian, don’t worry Miss Holmes is here to see Wynn. Fred is up there, too p>
IMS
Knowing she was with family eased the tension in Cassian’s shoulders just enough
for him to turn and leave the club.
Late that night, Cassian pushed open the door to his apartment.
The pitch-black rooms were terrifyingly quiet. There was no longer a warm light left on for him.
He aggressively slapped all the light switches. The harsh glare filled every corner, but it couldn’t fill the void in his chest.
The weather report said it was going to rain.
He walked out to the balcony and brought in the succulents Trista had planted.
As he slid the glass door shut, he noticed a throw pillow had fallen onto the floor.
On countless nights during their mating, Trista had curled up on the sofa with that pillow, waiting for him to come home.
Whenever he’d walk in, she’d lunge into his arms like a pup finding its safe harbor.
“Did you have dinner yet p>
“How much did you drink p>
“Are you tired p>
Those tiny, “annoying” questions were now a luxury he could never touch again.
Cassian’s breathing was heavy as he
leaned down to pick up the pillow
The alcohol was churning in his
stomach, making his footsteps
erratic
He went into the master bedroom and stood under a cold shower for fifteen minutes,
trying to drown the agitation in his blood.
Wearing only a white bathrobe, he
braced his hands against the
edmet
of the sink staring at his haggard
reflection in the mirror.
On the counter, Trista’s toothbrush was still there. A fresh pack of face towels hadn’t been finished.
He reached out and picked up a black hair tie she’d left behind, clutching it in his
palm.
“Cassian, I got us matching couple cups. You have to use yours p>
She’d held them out to him with so much hope, and he’d shut her down with total indifference.
He’d watched the light die in her eyes, yet she’d still forced a smile and tried to act cute.
When he pushed her away, she’d told him she was mad with tears in her eyes—and he hadn’t even looked back.
The memories were like claws, tearing at his consciousness.
In the silence of the night, he finally lost control.
He didn’t know how much more he drank; he just sank into the sofa, drifting
between a nightmare and reality.