Page 83 of The Alpha King’s Hidden Mute Mate

A lunatic playing an out-of-tune guitar at one in the morning, ice water dripping down his face.

But I didn't give a damn.

Because she brought me home.

She let me through her door.

The realization burned in my chest, hot enough to make me shake. I stood there under the spray, forehead pressed against tile, eyes closed, repeating it over and over. She's alive. She's okay. She's in the next room.

Took me about twenty minutes to clean up and bandage the worst of it. I pulled on the T-shirt she'd left by the door—black cotton, loose at the collar, with faded letters across the front. "I Survived the Tour."

I looked down at the words and let out a bitter laugh.

Damn right.

When I stepped out of the bathroom, the living room lights were dimmed. She sat on the couch, tea in hand, legs tucked beneath her, wearing an oversized gray sweatshirt. Her hair fell loose around her shoulders. She wasn't looking at me—her gaze was fixed on the city lights beyond the window, lost in thought.

I stood in the hallway, suddenly unsure what to say.

"Wounds taken care of?" She spoke first, her tone as casual as asking a stranger about the weather.

"Yeah."

"Good." She took a sip. "Guest room's at the end of the hall, right side. Fresh sheets. Leave before eight tomorrow morning."

My chest tightened, but I forced myself to ignore it.

"Mia—" I took a step forward.

"Don't." She raised her hand, stopping me cold. "Don't come closer. Stay right there."

I froze. About fifteen feet separated us—a coffee table, a floor lamp, and five years of silence.

"I need to apologize," I said, my voice so hoarse I barely recognized it. "For everything. For not believing you, for listening to Leah's lies, for sending you down that road—"

"Enough." She cut me off, her tone flat as slicing bread. "I know why you came looking for me."

I went still. "What?"

She set down her tea and looked up at me. Those eyes—eyes that once shone like stars in the moonlight—were now calm as stagnant water. No anger, no resentment. Just a cold clarity that sent chills down my spine.

"You want me to help restore your voice," she said. "Isn't that right?"

I felt like someone had punched me in the chest.

"No—"

"Don't play games, Zane." Impatience crept into her voice. "You traveled all the way to Silverpine Kingdom to personally recruit a singer. When she refused, you didn't give up. You snuck backstage. You followed me. You dragged me to Mist Forest—you did all that just because you missed me?"

"I—"

"Your pack hasn't had a Howling Ceremony in five years. Your alpha strength is fading. Your throne is slipping." Each word was a scalpel, precise and cutting. "You need my voice to restore your power. That's why you came."

I opened my mouth. Closed it.

She was right. Part of what she said was true. My pack did need her. My power was fading. My throne was in jeopardy. But that wasn't why I stayed.

"No," I said, my voice steadier than I expected. "I didn't come for you because you can restore my voice."