Page 87 of The Alpha's Fallen Spell
“No.” She steps back, creating more distance between us. “I’m done with your explanations. Done listening to you. Done with all of it.”
There’s a finality in her tone that sends panic surging through me. I’m losing her—truly losing her—and I don’t know how to stop it.
“This isn’t about anything but your safety,” I say, desperate to make her understand. “This is about people who want to hurtyou. Who want to use you as leverage against the royal families. Who want to cut you open to study how you’ve suppressed your wolf.”
There’s a quick flicker of doubt—or fear—in her eyes, but it’s quickly masked. “More convenient threats,” she says flatly. “More reasons why I should trust you, rely on you, need you.”
“It’s the truth,” I insist. “Why else would I be here? Why would I have searched for a year to find you?”
“I don’t know,” she admits, and for a moment, her façade slips. I glimpse the hurt beneath the anger, the confusion beneath the certainty. “I thought maybe—” She cuts herself off, shaking her head. “It doesn’t matter what I thought. What matters is that I need you to respect my wishes now. Please leave.”
She moves to open the office door, a clear dismissal of me.
“Fiona,” I say quietly, not moving. “I don’t know what happened, but whatever you now believe about me—it’s not true. I came here today because you’re in danger, and I need you to know that.”
“And I’m supposed to believe you?” Fiona asks, her voice barely above a whisper. “When all you’ve done is lie to me, manipulate me, push me away when it suits you, and pull me close when it doesn’t?”
Her words hit with devastating accuracy. Is that really how she sees our interactions? Have my efforts to protect her, to respect her independence while ensuring her safety, all been perceived as manipulation?
“I’ve never lied to you,” I say, meeting her gaze steadily. “Not once.”
“No,” she agrees, a bitter smile touching her lips. “You just omitted important truths.”
I have no idea what she’s referring to, what she thinks I’ve hidden from her. The bewilderment must show on my facebecause her expression changes to one of disappointment—or, perhaps, confirmation of a suspicion.
“Just go,” she says, suddenly sounding tired. “Please.”
The finality in her tone is unmistakable. As is the pain beneath it.
I’ve hurt her. Again. But I don’t understand how or why, and that makes it infinitely worse.
“Alright,” I say quietly, clutching the box of rejected gifts. “I’ll go. But Fiona…” I hesitate, knowing these may be the last words she allows me to speak to her. “No matter what you believe about me, please be careful. The threat is real, whether you trust me or not.”
She says nothing, just holds the door open, her gaze fixed somewhere over my shoulder.
As I pass her, I catch the faintest tremor in her composure—a hint of vulnerability beneath that icy control. For a heartbeat, I consider reaching for her, trying one more time to make her understand.
But I’ve pushed too far already. Caused too much damage.
I leave without another word, the returned presents heavy in my arms, the weight of failure heavier on my heart.
Chapter 15
Fiona
I regret how harsh I was to Erik, but I knew there was no other way to get him to leave me alone.
It’s been four days since I returned his gifts and told him to get out of my life. I’ve been telling myself I did the right thing and trying not to care, but I can’t forget the look on his face—confusion, hurt, disbelief.
The memory of him with that woman haunts me. The easy way they touched hands across the restaurant table. The way she made him laugh—a real laugh, not the careful, measured ones he has given me. The intimate way they leaned toward each other, comfortable in a manner that spoke of history, of connection.
I can’t stop thinking about it, even as I try to convince myself it doesn’t matter. That I don’t care.
The café feels emptier without him occupying his usual corner table. I catch myself glancing at it throughout the day, expecting to see him there with his newspaper or book, those intense, green eyes following my movements.
“Still moping?” Margo asks, leaning against the counter beside me.
“I’m not moping,” I snap, then immediately regret it. “Sorry. I didn’t sleep well last night.”
