Chapter 6

Stella

The word hung in the air between us, sharp and impossible.

I sat there on the edge of the bed, staring at Victor with my mouth slightly open, unable to form a coherent thought. The morning light streaming through the windows seemed too bright, too ordinary for this surreal moment.

Just yesterday—God, was it only yesterday?—I'd been so desperate to finalize things with Liam. I'd thought that if he would just mark me, make our engagement official in the eyes of werewolf law, my family wouldn't be able to use me as a bargaining chip anymore.

That's why I'd run to his house in such a panic, barefoot and bleeding from my feet, wearing nothing but my nightgown. I'd been so certain that getting marked was my only escape, my only path to freedom.

I'd never imagined I would find him in bed with my own sister.

The memory sent a fresh spike of pain through my chest. The betrayal was still so raw that even thinking about it made my stomach turn.

And now here I was, less than twenty-four hours later, being proposed to by Liam's uncle.

A man I barely knew.

I never expected those words to come from Liam's uncle's mouth so easily, so matter-of-factly, as if proposing marriage to his nephew's fiancée was the most natural thing in the world.

"I..." I bit down on my lower lip, my teeth pressing hard enough to hurt.

For one wild, reckless moment, I wanted to say yes. I wanted to throw caution to the wind and accept, to seize this chance to escape my family once and for all, to put myself beyond their reach forever.

But then reality crashed back in, cold and unforgiving, and I found myself shaking my head almost violently.

No. No, I couldn't do this.

I'd heard the stories about Victor Sinclair. Before the poison gas attack, before he'd lost his sense of smell and fallen from grace, he'd been known as someone ruthless and calculating.

The business world had whispered about his methods, about deals that went through and competitors who suddenly found themselves ruined.

Even now, diminished as he was supposed to be, there was something about him that unsettled me. Something in the controlled grace of his movements, the careful neutrality of his expression behind those gold-rimmed glasses.

I didn't want to get tangled up with someone like that.

I didn't want to trade one form of control for another, one cage for a different cage with prettier bars.

I kept my head down, unable to meet his gaze, and shook my head again. "I... I can't."

The silence that followed felt heavy.

I could feel Victor's eyes on me, could sense him watching, waiting.

When he finally spoke, his voice carried a note of something that might have been amusement if it hadn't sounded so bitter.

"I understand."

I looked up at that, startled by his tone.

He'd turned slightly away from me, his profile sharp against the morning light. His skin looked even paler now, almost translucent, with that sickly quality that made him seem fragile despite his height and the breadth of his shoulders.

As I watched, he lifted one hand to cover his mouth, his body shaking with a soft cough that seemed to go on a beat too long.

When the coughing subsided, he lowered his hand slowly, and I caught a glimpse of his expression—self-mockery mixed with something darker, something that looked almost like resignation.

He looked like someone who'd been dying by inches for years and had finally made peace with it.

"Of course you wouldn't want to," he said, his voice still carrying that bitter edge. "Who would want to spend their life bound to a wolf who can't even smell anymore?"

He paused, and something flickered across his face.

"I'm no different from a useless person really. A defective heir to the Alpha bloodline. Broken."

The words hit me harder than they should have.

There was such casual cruelty in the way he spoke about himself, such matter-of-fact acceptance of his own diminishment.

And suddenly, pieces clicked into place in my mind.

That's why he hadn't recoiled from me last night.

That's why he could stand here now, close enough that any other werewolf would be gagging on my scent, and show no sign of disgust.

It wasn't because there was something special about me.

It was simply because he couldn't smell me at all.

Victor had lost his sense of smell in that poison gas attack. He couldn't detect the repulsive odor that made other werewolves turn away from me in barely concealed revulsion.

He couldn't smell the defect that had made even Liam, who'd claimed to love me, refuse to mark me.

The realization should have brought relief.

Instead, it made me feel hollow, scraped out and empty.

"Mr. Sinclair," I started, my voice coming out strained and awkward.

I caught myself, realizing I'd almost called him 'uncle' out of habit.

"I mean, Victor. Please don't say things like that about yourself. It's not—I didn't mean—"

I couldn't finish the sentence, couldn't find the words to explain what I was feeling. All I knew was that I needed to leave, needed to get out of this room and this impossible situation before I completely fell apart.

"I should go," I said abruptly, pushing myself up from the bed.

Suddenly, my vision swam as my knees gave out completely. I had just enough time to register that I was falling before strong arms caught me, pulling me back against a solid chest.

Victor had moved with startling speed, crossing the distance between us in what seemed like an instant.

Now he held me securely, one arm wrapped around my waist, the other supporting my shoulders, keeping me upright when my own body had betrayed me.

My face was pressed against his chest, and I could hear his heartbeat—strong and steady and somehow reassuring in its rhythm.

The warmth of his body seeped into mine, and for one traitorous moment, I felt something I hadn't felt in longer than I could remember.

The thought sent a spike of panic through me, sharp and sudden.

What was I thinking? This was Liam's uncle. I couldn't let myself feel anything at all.

I tried to push away from him, but my legs were still numb, pins and needles shooting through them as circulation slowly returned.

I couldn't support my own weight yet.

"Did it hurt?" His voice came from above me, soft and concerned. "Last night, I mean. Did I hurt you?"

The question was so unexpected, so gentle, that for a moment I couldn't process it.

Then the meaning sank in, and I felt my face flame with heat so intense I thought I might actually combust.

He was asking about—about that.

About what we'd done.

"I'm fine," I managed to choke out, my voice muffled against his chest.

I pushed harder against him, trying to use the leverage to stand, even though my legs were still trembling.

"I'm okay. I just need to—"

"Was I too rough?" His voice was still gentle, still concerned, and he reached out to catch my wrist in a careful grip. "I should have been more careful. I should have—"

"No!" The word came out too loud, too sharp.

I yanked my hand away from his touch, my heart hammering.

I didn't know whether to shake my head or nod, didn't know how to respond to this impossible question.

"I'm sorry."

The words were so quiet, so sincere, that they stopped me cold.

I looked up at him, startled, and found him watching me with an expression of such genuine regret that it made my chest ache.

His eyes behind those gold-rimmed glasses were dark and serious.

Suddenly, I realized this man was nothing like the rumors suggested, nothing like the ruthless, calculating figure that the business world whispered about.

"I'm sorry," he said again, and this time there was something else in his voice, something that might have been embarrassment.

He looked away from me, his jaw tightening.

"Last night was... did I hurt you?" He paused, his expression tightening with what looked like regret. "I may not have... controlled myself properly."

The words hung in the air between us, and for a moment, I couldn't process them.

He was asking if he'd hurt me.

This man—this Alpha who was older than me by nearly a decade, who'd been the heir apparent to one of the most powerful families in the city—was looking at me with nothing but genuine concern in his eyes.

The weight of everything that had happened pressed down on me all at once — the betrayal, the escape, the night I hadn't chosen, and now this man standing before me with his careful eyes and his quiet concern.

The absurdity of it was almost too much to bear.

My face burned with renewed embarrassment.

"I should go," I said again, my voice coming out strangled. "I really need to—"

A thunderous pounding on the door cut me off mid-sentence.

The sound was so sudden, so violent, that I actually jumped.

"Victor!" A woman's voice rang out, sharp with fury and barely controlled hysteria.

"Victor, open this door! Open it right now!" The pounding continued, each strike more furious than the last.

"Victor, you bastard! Let Stella out here!"