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I don’t even hate him. That’s the worst part.

Ihatethat I don’t hate him. I hate that I feel like this - like I’m on fire and only he gets to put it out. I hate that I’m still wearing his goddamn shirt like it’s armor instead of a souvenir from the worst emotional rollercoaster of my life.

And I especially hate that even now, even after everything, I know - down to my bones - that I’d still take him.

If he asked.

If he claimed.

If he said my name like it mattered.

And whether I like it or not, right now, Lucian Vale is calling me -

And my treacherous body answers.

*

The house is huge. And quiet. And a little too murder-mystery-for-sale on Zillow.

Every room looks like it’s waiting for a Vogue Home Tour that never arrived. Sleek marble floors, overpriced modern art that probably cost more than my entire student debt history, and a color palette that screamstax evasion, but make it fashion.

No clutter. No warmth. Not even a stray coffee cup.

Just vibes. Expensive, sterile, Lucian-core vibes.

I hate it here, but I keep moving anyway, because I’m apparently the proud owner of a magical homing device for emotionally repressed alphas.

The bond doesn’t nudge me forward, it yanks - like someone pressedFind My Omegaand I’m being AirTagged to hell.

There’s a hallway with twelve identical doors, which feels a bit serial killer-y, if I’m honest. But one is cracked open. Just the one. Of course.

Because Lucian Vale, High Lord of Brooding and Bond Damage, knew I’d come.

Knew I’d feel it. Knew I’d follow.

The bond pulls tighter as I get closer. Not with affection, or anI miss youkind of gentleness.

No. This is a full-on tug-of-war between my self-respect and my absolute inability to ignore the metaphysical equivalent of a 2 a.m.u awake? text from an alpha who ghosted me during heat.

I should leave. I should run.

I should go back, eat the sad half-slice of toast I left on the counter after being emotionally railed and spiritually knotted by Kai, and nap this rage off like a reasonable person.

But no.

I kick the door open, and there he is.

Lucian Vale. God of control. King of contempt. Alpha made of glass and gunpowder.

Emotionally constipated ruler of this ice-cube of a mansion.

He’s standing by the windowin a dark shirt dark with the sleeves pushed up like he’s about to draft military orders. His dark, wavy hair is slicked back like always; perfect and controlled.

Buttoned so far up emotionally that I’m surprised he can still breathe.

And those eyes - stormy, unreadable, annoyingly hot - snap to mine; sharp and assessing, like he’s already dissecting me for the threat I pose.

Or the damage I’ve already done.

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