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Skyla
The antique grandfather clock ticks.
7:59 p.m.
He’s almost two hours late.
Brayden is never late.
Is he still at work? Is he looking for Douglas? Has he convinced the beta to come back home? Or have I destroyed everything beyond repair?
“Stop thinking about it,” I whisper, clutching the duster in my sweaty hand. “You’ll drive yourself crazy.”
But there’s nothing else to think about. Nothing to distract me except the mindless chores and the sharp pain radiating from my neck.
I suck in a breath then run my fingers along the soft bristles of the duster, trying to redirect my thoughts. But this big house is too quiet—the kind that forces your mind to wander whether you want it to or not.
Moving slowly, I drag the duster down the face of the grandfather clock, then trace it along the carved edges of itsframe. Everything is spotless as always, but I have to do something to keep my hands busy. To keep my mind from spiraling.
My gaze shifts from the clock to the shelves beside it. The books and antique figurines are all pristine, like always.
This place feels like a museum sometimes. Not the sterile kind—no bright lights or velvet ropes—but the kind filled with creaking floorboards and ancient oil paintings. There’s dark paneling, towering ceilings, heavy drapes, and too many things that all look like they were bequeathed in a will. Even the rugs seem haunted, like they’ve been walked on by ghosts.
And there’s nothing I can do to make it cozier.
I’ve lived here for over a year, but I still feel like a guest. The few things I’ve added—flowers, blankets, a bit of color—get swallowed whole. The house remains the same: cold, stately, untouchable.Not mine.
The minute hand shifts, and the clock chimes.
Deep and resonant, the sound vibrates through the floor beneath my bare feet.
8 p.m.
I freeze up, eyes locked on the dust swirling in the amber light slanting through the window.
Why isn’t Brayden home?
Fear swells in my chest as something trickles down my neck, slick and warm. It slides over my collarbone, soaking into the fabric of my tank top. It’s either blood or sweat, but I don’t check. There’s no point. Nothing I’ve done has stopped the bleeding, so I might as well let it be.
“Skyla.” Martin’s voice tears through the silence. I flinch, nearly dropping the duster. His tone softens as he steps closer. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
I keep my back to him and force a smile. It stretches too wide, too stiff. Then, I turn to face the alpha.
Martin looks exhausted. Dark circles bruise the skin under his eyes, and his hair is a tousled mess. I can’t remember the last time any of us slept through the night.
“Everything okay?” he asks, scanning me head to toe as he inches closer.
I shift, uncomfortable, fighting the urge to back up. “I’m good.” My voice is a little too high-pitched as I push up on tiptoes and brush a kiss against his cheek. “How was work?”
He doesn’t answer. He just stares at me.
Dark blue eyes study my face, then they drop to my neck. His eyes narrow as he looks at my fresh mating bite, then his mouth pulls into a frustrated line. Not shocked.Annoyed?
“You’re bleeding.” His voice is flat, lacking any concern.He’s just as sick of this as I am.“Did Bray bite you again?” He leans down to look at it, and my body locks up.
“Yes.” I say, staring at the floor. I don’t want to see the disappointment in his eyes. “This morning.”
