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Because I may be bleeding. I may be raw. I may be standing here in a wrinkled shirt that reeks of his cologne and a temper hotter than the sun -

But I’m still standing.

Wanting him doesn’t mean I’ll shrink for him, and I swear, if Lucian Vale thinks he can build a throne out of my bones and call it love, he better be ready to choke on the crown.

Chapter Forty

Rhea

Ihate it here.

Still. The bed is the softest thing I’ve ever laid on. Possibly illegally soft. Like it was engineered in a secret alpha lab for maximum omega seduction. The sheets are fresh - suspiciously fresh - as if someone came in and changed them before I passed out like a sex-drenched cryptid. Which, frankly, feels rude.

I can’t sleep. But I lie there anyway, cocooned in blankets, facing the wall. My limbs are heavy with confusion, betrayal, and the raw ache of being knotted like a damn pretzel.

And Lucian Vale can go straight to hell.

Fuck him. His silence. His arrogance. His perfectly coordinated cufflinks. The bond is still there, still humming in my chest like a Bluetooth connection I can’t unpair, but apparently, I’m not worth a claim. Not worth a mark. Not worth even a full sentence of honesty.

Just enough for a rejection and a mug of damn tea.

Yes. He left tea. I’ll get there.

I roll to my back with a groan and stare at the ceiling. I should be processing. Should be thinking big-picture.

Because realistically, how long do I have until the OMB realizes I disappeared from the gala because I'm actually an unregistered omega and sends a search party in the shape of black government SUVs?

And while we're at it, does my landlord takesorry, I heat-bonded four alphasas a valid excuse for late rent?

Is Kai - god help me - the one who now has all my stuff? My phone, my camera, and the clutch bag I abandoned at the gala? If he went through it, he now knows I own three types of emergency suppressants, two crumpled IDs, a half-eaten protein bar, and exactly seven dollars in cash.

And tampons. So many tampons.

And then there's Lexi.

I need to talk to Lexi. She covered for me at the gala, and with everything that's happened, I haven’t checked in. For all I know, she’s staged a coup or murdered a Bureau agent with her heels.

My life is on fire, and I’m in here stewing about Lucian’s rejection like some unhinged regency heroine.

I need to get a grip.

The seal of the door hisses softly out of nowhere, and I tense for a beat before I force myself to relax my posture. It pushes open, and I go still, because I already know who it is.

His scent hits me a moment later - cool and commanding, with a note of cedar and disappointment.

I stay on my side, breathing steady, faking sleep like a pro. He walks in, all slow footsteps and bottled self-loathing.

He passes through the room, stopping just behind me, hovering over the bed. He stands there in silence: doesn’t speak, and doesn’t touch.

I briefly consider letting out a fake snore. Just to spice things up.

But instead I wait. Silent. Still.Furious.

Eventually, he moves. There’s the soft creak of leather, the brush of fabric, and then he’s gone. Like a ghost with a superiority complex.

When I finally roll over, I see the damage: a neatly folded stack of clothes on the chair - sweatpants, soft tees, fresh underwear, and a goddamn long-sleeve thermal. For comfort. For recovery. For whatever delusion he’s having about making this right.

And next to it?

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