“I’ll come home,” I murmured, my voice barely there, as fragile as breath drifting through the trees.
He didn’t reply. He didn’t need to. All I heard was the quiet rise and fall of his breathing—steady, patient, real. It anchored me, like the rhythm of a pack heartbeat I had once turned my back on. I ended the call before my resolve could falter, before I could say words that might shatter me if spoken aloud.
The door opened with a slow groan, and Alpha Thorne stepped inside as if he owned the very air in the room. He moved like a shadow that refused to leave, one that had grown too comfortable in the dark. His scent reached me before his voice ever did—sour wine tangled with lies, ambition drowning out loyalty. His gaze pinned me in place, sharp and probing, as though he could already smell my escape clinging to my skin.
“You saw the plane passes, didn’t you?” he said, lips curving into a cruel half-smile. “Six seats. That’s all. Me, Camille, Julian, Corinne, and the twins. No more.”
My throat tightened painfully, but I forced the lump down, refusing to let him see the crack.