Chapter 11: Chapter 11

SELENE

He was ~everywhere.~

Even when I didn’t see him.

Even when I ~tried~ not to think about him.

I ~felt~ him—like a phantom presence, a ghost of something I should have been able to escape. But no matter how hard I worked, no matter how much I tried to distract myself, the pull between us didn’t fade.

It only got ~worse.~

A week into reassignment, I threw myself into my new duties with every ounce of determination I could muster. Anything to keep from thinking about him.

Anything to keep from remembering the feel of his hands on my skin.

The way his mouth had ~claimed~ mine.

The way he had pushed me away like I was ~nothing.~

It shouldn’t have mattered.

I shouldn’t have ~wanted~ him.

And yet, every time I caught even the faintest whisper of his presence—the distant sound of his voice in the halls, the sharp crack of his commands during training, the scent of pine and smoke that lingered on his discarded linens—I felt like I was ~burning.~

I was a fool to think I could simply forget him.

But he hadn’t come looking for me.

Not once.

Not a single glance in my direction, not a word passed between us since that night.

He had made his choice ~clear.~

So I made mine.

I forced myself to move on.

Even if every part of me ~screamed~ that I never could.

Late at night, when the alpha’s wing had gone quiet, I found another way to distract myself.

Fighting.

It started small—throwing a few punches into the mattress before bed, testing the movement of my body, repeating the lessons he’d drilled into me. Then, it became something ~more.~

Something I ~needed.~

Something that kept me from losing my mind.

I pushed my bed to the farthest corner of my quarters, clearing enough space to move. My body still ached from the long hours of work, but it didn’t matter.

I set my stance.

Feet apart. Knees loose. Weight balanced.

I exhaled sharply, lifting my fists, picturing ~him~ standing in front of me. The way he moved, the way he ~watched~ me when we trained.

~“Plant your feet, Selene. A stiff stance is a weak one.”~

I shifted. Adjusted.

~“Again.”~

I swung forward, striking an invisible opponent, my breath steady, focused.

~“You swing too wide. Tighten your strikes.”~

I corrected. Again. Over and over. Until the repetition sank into my bones, until the sound of his voice was the only thing in my mind.

Until I wasn’t fighting at all.

I was ~reliving.~

His hands, dragging my body against his.

His mouth, hot and claiming, devouring me like I was ~his.~

The way he had ~smelled~—like heat and something purely ~male.~

I faltered.

My breath hitched, my body shivering from the phantom ~weight~ of him pressing against me.

Gods, I was ~pathetic.~

I wasn’t even ~near~ him, and I still felt him like he had burned himself into my ~skin.~

Heat curled low in my stomach, sharp and insistent.

I swallowed hard and launched another strike, trying to ~force~ my mind elsewhere.

~“You hesitate when you should commit.”~

I let out a sharp, frustrated breath, dragging my hands through my hair.

~Get it together.~

This was madness.

This was ~wrong.~

But it didn’t ~feel~ wrong.

It felt ~inevitable.~

And then, I started ~stealing from him.~

I couldn’t ~help it.~

His scent was the only thing that kept me sane.

I went to the laundry room at night when no one else was there, pretending to help with the washing—just for an excuse to sift through the alpha’s discarded clothes.

It was ~shameless.~

I would press my face into his shirts, inhaling the scent of pine, smoke, and ~him.~ Letting it settle into my skin, into my ~lungs.~

And when I found one that smelled the strongest—one ~he had just worn~—I ~took it.~

I didn’t even feel guilty.

I wore them to bed.

And when the scent started to fade, I would replace it with a ~new~ one.

Every week.

It was the closest I could get to him.

And I ~needed it.~

I would lie awake at night, curled beneath my blankets, his scent wrapped around me like he was ~there.~

Like he had ~covered me~ in himself.

And gods, I ~wished~ he had.

I ~wished~ I could feel him again.

Taste him again.

The thought was dangerous.

But it wasn’t ~wrong.~

I wanted his hands on me.

His mouth.

His ~teeth.~

A month into reassignment, and I couldn’t do this anymore.

The silence. The distance. The way he pretended that I didn’t exist, like he hadn’t nearly lost himself inside me. I needed answers. I needed to ~know why.~ Why he had kissed me. Why he had pushed me away. Why he couldn’t even ~look~ at me now.

So, one night, long after the pack house had gone quiet, I did something stupid~.~ I went to his quarters.

The hallway was eerily silent as I approached his door, my heart hammering in my chest. My fingers trembled as I lifted my hand and knocked.

A long beat of silence. Then—

~“Go away.”~

His voice was rough, low, like he had been fighting something long before I got here.

I squared my shoulders, ignoring the sharp stab of pain in my chest. “No.”

Another silence. Then—

The door swung open.

And I ~wished~, for the first time, that it hadn’t.

Because the moment I saw him, I ~knew~ something was wrong.

Alpha Theron stood in the doorway, his shirt half-unbuttoned, his hair disheveled like he had been raking his hands through it all night. His breath was uneven, his entire body tense, and gods, the way he smelled—~like heat.~ Like ~restraint.~ Like a man barely ~holding himself together.~

I swallowed hard, the words I’d planned to say catching in my throat. His jaw tightened, his fingers twitching at his sides. Then, in a voice so low it sent a violent ~shudder~ through me, he asked, ~“Why are you here, Selene?”~

I couldn’t lie. Not to him.

I lifted my chin, meeting the storm of his unseeing eyes, and whispered, ~“Because I can’t stop thinking about you.”~

His entire body locked. His nostrils flared, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard. And then—he took a step closer. A slow, deliberate step. So close I had to tilt my head to meet his face. His breath ghosted over my lips, his fingers twitching at his sides, like he was fighting every instinct in his body.

~“You think I don’t feel it too?”~ he rasped.

I sucked in a sharp breath as his fingers brushed my wrist—a featherlight touch. A ~warning.~ And yet, I leaned in. And so did he.

The heat between us was unbearable. It filled the space like an invisible force, pulling, dragging me closer to him like I ~belonged~ there. His breath hitched, and I swore I could feel the ~shudder~ that ran through him. A war. A losing one.

His fingers flexed at his sides before his palm ~finally~ skimmed my hip. Just the lightest ~graze~, but it was enough to make my breath falter. I bit my lip, desperate to stop the sound rising in my throat, but his grip ~tightened~—as if he knew. As if the effort of keeping myself quiet made it ~worse.~

~“Alpha,”~ I whispered.

A curse left his lips, quiet and broken, and then—~he was on me.~

Not kissing me. Not ~yet.~ But ~there~, chest flush against mine, his fingers splaying against the curve of my back, keeping me locked ~against him.~ And gods, he was ~so warm.~ So solid. So ~hard~ against my stomach that my knees nearly buckled.

I felt the deep, sharp inhale he took against my skin before he dipped his head. Close. ~Too~ close. His nose grazed my throat, inhaling deep, and a ~vicious~ sound rumbled through him.

~“Fuck,”~ he muttered. His lips ~almost~ brushed my jaw, the warmth of his breath scorching the skin there.

I ~needed~ him to close the distance. I needed him to ~touch~ me. But he held still, body locked so tight he was practically ~shaking.~

His mouth hovered, agonizingly close, as though he was breathing me in, as though he was ~memorizing~ the feel of my body against his without allowing himself the pleasure of taking.

I whimpered. That was all it took.

His hand ~fisted~ in my hair, yanking my head back with just enough force to make my pulse ~pound.~ His other palm slid over my hip, my waist—~gripping~ me there like he was trying to hold himself back from ~pinning~ me against the wall and ruining me the way I ~ached~ for him to.

My hands shot up to his chest, fisting the fabric of his half-open shirt. His skin was hot beneath my fingertips, ~burning~, and I wanted to rip it off him. I ~needed~ more.

“You’re playing with fire,” he growled, his nose dragging along the column of my throat.

I ~knew.~ And I didn’t care.

“Then burn me,” I whispered.

A sharp inhale. A flicker of ~something~ dark and violent in his expression.

Then—his lips ~barely~ ghosted over mine.

~Not enough.~

I ~arched~ into him, desperate, reckless, trying to ~take~ what he wouldn’t ~give.~ His teeth scraped my jaw, a warning.

~“Selene—”~

I ~didn’t~ listen. I ~couldn’t.~

I pressed up onto my toes, brushing my lips over his, and his entire body ~shook.~ His grip ~tightened~—his restraint ~shattering~—

And then, ~suddenly~, he shoved me away.

Hard enough that I stumbled~.~

His chest was heaving. His hands were shaking. His lips were ~red~ like he’d already kissed me raw.

But he hadn’t. Not ~really.~

~“Leave,”~ he rasped.

His voice was hoarse. But this time—this time—I ~heard~ the desperation in it.

He was ~afraid.~ Not of me. Of ~himself.~

I stepped forward, but his hands came up between us, ~shaking.~

~“Selene.”~ His voice was pained. ~Warning.~

I’d pushed him far enough. For tonight.

So I did the only thing I could. I turned. And walked away.

But as I left, I ~heard~ it—the sound of my alpha slamming his fist against the door the moment it closed behind me.

And for the first time in weeks, I ~smiled.~

Because this wasn’t over.

Not by a long shot.