Page 51

But those deaths had a purpose. They were planned, calculated, and necessary for the family’s protection or my own survival.

This…

This was unplanned chaos.

The wine chiller slips from my fingers and hits the tile with a dull thud, more blood spattering my boots. My hands shake, covered in the Alpha’s blood, and no matter how hard I try, the trembling won’t stop.

Footsteps sound at the apartment door, which still stands open.

I don’t turn around. I can’t rip myself away from the body on my floor, the blood, the vacant stare fixed on the ceiling.

“Trouble?” Orien calls out from the entrance, before he takes in the destruction. “Fucking hell. Trouble, answer me!”

Footsteps rush across the living room, but pause at the tiled divider that sections off the kitchen in the studio apartment.

It takes effort, but I lift my head and meet Orien’s gaze across the ruined apartment. His eyes meet mine without horror or disgust.

Only a terrible, focused calm as his focus shifts from me to the body on the floor and back again. “Are you hurt?”

I shake my head.

He crosses the kitchen in three quick strides, his hands gentle as they cup my jaw, thumbs brushing over my cheeks as he checks for injuries. “Talk to me, trouble. Are you hurt?”

“N-no,” I manage. “I’m⁠—”

“Don’t say you’re sorry,” he cuts in. “Don’t say anything except answers to my questions.”

His hands drop to my shoulders, giving them a gentle squeeze. “Sit down and put your head between your knees if you need to. Breathe. I’ve got this.”

He doesn’t wait for my response, already moving back toward the living room, pulling out his phone as he goes. “Saint? I need you at 328 Crescent Street, apartment 4B. Bring one of my bags. And a bottle of the good whiskey.”

A pause.

“No. Not for me.”

The phone goes back into his pocket, and Orien returns to the kitchen, giving nothing away as he studies the scene. He kneels beside the body, fingers finding the Alpha’s throat.

After a moment, he shakes his head. “He’s gone.”

“I don’t—” My throat tightens, choking me off, and I clear it. “What do I⁠—”

Orien rises, crossing to rummage under the sink for trash bags, then wets a dish towel. “Did anyone else see you come in?”

I shake my head. “Just…just him. He was waiting. He said he’s been watching me.”

A muscle twitches in Orien’s jaw. “Did he hurt you?”

My hand rises to my throat, and pain flares beneath my fingertips, evidence of the bruises already forming. “Only my pride.”

A moment later, Orien is in front of me again, the wet dish towel in his hand. “Give me your hands.”

I hold them out, still shaking, covered in drying blood. Orien takes them in his, the touch gentle as he wipes away the evidence of what I’ve done.

“He forced his way in,” Orien says with calm certainty. “He would have killed you if you’d given him the chance. You defended yourself. Nothing more.”

It’s not all that happened, and we both know it. But the simplicity of his statement and his calm certainty ease the tightness in my chest enough that I can breathe.

After cleaning my hands, Orien drops the bloodied towel into the trash bag and reaches for me again, his thumb brushing over my lower lip. “You’re safe now. I promise.”