Page 61 of The Alpha's Fallen Spell
“No, I wasn’t your choice at all,” she counters, her voice like ice. “You didn’t want the broken, damaged version of me, so you don’t get the whole, healed version, either.”
The finality in her voice leaves me reeling. “Fiona—”
“Get out,” she says, finally stepping back, breaking the charged connection between us. “Go back to your kingdom, your duties, your life. I have my own now.”
I stare at her, taking in every detail of her face—the stubborn set of her jaw, the fire in her eyes, the slight tremble of her lips that betrays emotions she’s trying to hide. Even in her anger, she’s magnificent. My wolf howls within me, desperate to claim what we both know is ours.
“Are you happy?” I ask her, the question barely audible.
Her face hardens. “Yes,” she says flatly. “I am. Without you.”
The words are meant to wound, and they do. But beneath her hostility, I catch something else—a hint of vulnerability, quickly suppressed. She’s not as indifferent as she wants me to believe. The realization gives me hope, however slim.
“I’ll go,” I say, each word feeling torn from me. “For now. But this isn’t over, Fiona.”
Her eyes narrow. “Yes, it is. Don’t come back here.”
“I’ve spent a year searching for you,” I tell her, my voice low and intense. “Do you really think I’ll give up now that I’ve found you?”
“What I think,” she says, stepping closer again, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper, “is that you still don’t understand what respect means. I’m telling you to leave me alone. That should be enough.”
She is so close to me now that I can see the gold flecks in her gray eyes, so close that I could bend down and capture her lipswith mine if I dared. For a moment, her gaze drops to my mouth, and the scent of her subtly changes—a primal reaction she can’t control, even with her wolf dormant.
“I respect your choice,” I say softly. “But I also respect what we could be together. What we’re meant to be.”
She steps back abruptly, as if suddenly burned. “Get out,” she repeats, her voice shaking slightly. “Now.”
I nod, knowing I’ve pushed far enough for today. But as I turn to leave, I make a silent promise to myself—and to her. This isn’t the end. It’s barely the beginning.
At the door, I pause for one last look at her—this strong, fierce woman who was meant to be mine, who I pushed away through my own fear and pride. “Goodbye for now, Fiona.”
“Goodbye, Erik,” she replies, and though her posture remains rigid, I catch the faintest flicker of something—regret? longing?—in her eyes before she turns away.
I leave the café, the bell chiming a cheerful farewell that feels like mockery. The night air is cool against my face, stars beginning to appear in the evening sky overhead. I stand on the sidewalk for a long moment, staring at the warm glow of the café windows, at the life Fiona has created without me.
She’s right about so much. She saved herself. And in doing so, she has become someone new—someone strong enough to reject the mate that fate decided for her, to forge her own path instead.
The irony isn’t lost on me. A year ago, I rejected her because I thought she was too broken, too needy, too much of a distraction from my duties. Now, she rejects me because she’s whole, complete, and focused on a life that has no place for me in it.
But I’ve learned something this past year: some bonds can’t be severed. Some connections run too deep. The mate bond may be dormant on her side, but it is very much alive on mine. And I’ll be damned if I’m going to walk away now.
I made that mistake once before. Never again.
As I head off from The Morning Brew, I’m already planning my return. Fiona may think she has moved on completely, but the fire between us tells a different story. She can deny it all she wants, but I saw the truth in her eyes, felt it in the electricity between us.
This isn’t over. Not by a long shot. She may have saved herself, but that doesn’t mean she has to face the future alone. I just need to prove to her that I’m worthy of standing beside her—not as her savior, but as her equal.
And I’ll spend the rest of my life doing exactly that, if that’s what it takes.
I give her three days to cool off, to process the fact that I found her and that I haven’t given up on her. On us.
When I return to The Morning Brew, it’s mid-morning, and the café is bustling with customers. The bell above the door chimes as I enter, and I catch Fiona’s eye immediately. She’s behind the counter, pouring a latte into a mug with practiced precision. Her expression hardens into a mask of indifference when she sees me.
Wordlessly, she slides a cup of coffee across the counter to me. After paying her, I take a seat at a small table in the corner, watching as she finishes with another customer. She then whispers something to the purple-haired employee—Margo, I remember. Margo glances in my direction, rolls her eyes dramatically, then nods.
Fiona continues serving customers, pointedly ignoring me. I’m content to wait, to observe. The café she has created is impressive—warm, welcoming, with an eclectic charm thatseems to perfectly capture the complexity of its owner. The customers clearly love the place, many greeting Fiona by name and exchanging easy banter with her.
What catches my attention—and sets my teeth on edge—is the way several male customers interact with her. A businessman in an expensive suit lingers at the counter, complimenting her on the “exceptional coffee” while his eyes track the movement of her hands. A college-aged kid with tattoos covering his arms leans across the counter, saying something that makes her smile politely, although I can see the stiffness in her shoulders.
