Page 23 of Growl Me, Maybe

The truth. Raw and jagged in his eyes. A breath from confession.

But then it was gone. Buried beneath that stoic alpha mask again.

He crossed his arms. “This isn’t about us.”

Her heart cracked. “So thereisan us.”

He didn’t reply.

“I see,” she said quietly. “Well, let me make somethingcrystalclear, Alpha Montgomery.”

He flinched at the use of his title from her lips.

“If you’re not wolf or man enough to be honest about what’s going on—between us, in your head, whatever twisted thing you’re wrestling with—then you don’t get to butt into my personal life. You don’t get to scowl at anyone who smiles at me, or warn me off like I’m some fragile little thing you don’t even want.”

He stayed silent, but his eyes, those storm-colored eyes—tracked every word like they were arrows headed straight for his heart.

“And I’m not doing this with you anymore,” she finished. “Not until you figure out whether you actually want me in your life, or just like the control of pretending you don’t.”

She turned.

Walked toward the door without looking back. But before she stepped through it, she paused.

Her voice was low and tired. “You can be as closed off as you want. But don’t lie to yourself and pretend this doesn’t matter. Because it does. And maybe it always did.”

Then she left, shutting the door behind her with a quiet finality.

Lyra didn’t cry.

She didn’t rage, either.

She walked slowly through the Keep, ignoring the way people turned as she passed, ignoring Milo’s shadow weaving at her heels like he was waiting for her to fall apart.

She didn’t. Not this time. Because it wasn’t heartbreak she felt.

It was grief. Quiet and thick and rising.

She hadn’t asked for him to want her. She hadn’t expected it, not truly. But shehadexpected him to be honest. And that was where it hurt.

That a man who commanded a whole town couldn’t even look her in the eye and admit he felt something when she touched his hand. That someone with a wolf soul couldn’t find the words to tell her why it mattered that Ezra talked to her or looked at her for longer than a blink.

She stopped halfway down the courtyard steps, closing her eyes.

She wasn’t a fragile spellbook. She wasn’t someone who broke easy. But even witches had limits.

And today,he’d found hers.

12

JACE

Jace wasn’t used to regret.

Regret was for men who acted without thinking, wolves who lost control. Alphas weren’t afforded the luxury. They acted. Led. Endured.

But this morning? Regret was a dull ache under his ribs, a weight pressing at the base of his throat.

He hadn’t meant to hurt her. Not like that.

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