Chapter 6 The night stand
• Freya •
I stood beside the nightstand pretending to organize the notebook Maria had left there, flipping it open, closing it again, then tracing the worn edge with my thumb because apparently that was less embarrassing than admitting I had absolutely no idea what people did after agreeing to fake an engagement and move into an Alpha’s bedroom.
The connecting door remained open between our rooms.
Wide enough to remind me there wasn’t really a my room and his room.
There was just…
…ours.
I hated that word already. His scent drifted in before he did. It covered the room so naturally it felt like the walls themselves breathed him in.
Then he stepped inside.
His tie had disappeared sometime during the lawyer’s call, the first two buttons of his shirt undone, sleeves rolled to his forearms. His hair looked like he’d raked a hand through it one too many times, and the confident grin he’d been wearing downstairs had vanished somewhere between the office and this hallway.
He looked…tired.
For a second neither of us spoke. His eyes swept across the room instead. The hoodie I’d hung beside his jackets. My sneakers kicked beneath the bench. My duffel sitting open near the armchair.
Little signs that someone else had moved into a life that clearly hadn’t been built for two adults. His gaze lingered on my hoodie. Then on the bed.
Then back to me.
“…Well,” I muttered.
He looked up.
“I guess congratulations.”
His eyebrow lifted.
“You’ve officially reached every girl’s dream.”
Silence.
“You get to share a bedroom with me.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “There it is.”
“What?”
“I was wondering how long you’d stay serious.”
“I lasted…” I pretended to think. “…what? Five whole minutes?”
“Closer to seven.”
“Hm.”
“I timed it.”
I blinked. “…You timed my silence?”
“No.” A pause. “My relief.”
I stared. He wasn’t smiling. He’d actually meant it.
Something inside my chest shifted before I quickly shoved it back where it belonged. Absolutely not, not today.
He walked farther into the room, stopping near the foot of the bed.
“Jaxon’s handling the latest leak.”
“Marcus?” I asked.
He nodded once.
“He’s feeding the media just enough information to keep the story alive. Anonymous sources. Blurred photographs. Rumors that I’m mentally unstable.”
“Creative.”
“They’re getting less creative.”
“They called you a vampire last month. Crazy.”
“I know.”
“I almost believed that one.”
His mouth actually curved. “Bite marks would’ve helped.”
“Oh, don’t tempt the tabloids.”
“I won’t.”
“They’ll run with Alpha secretly immortal, drinks the blood of CEOs.”
A quiet small laugh escaped him. It did something strange to the room. Made it feel less suffocating.
He exhaled slowly before the seriousness returned.
“We have until dawn. Elder Thorne arrives first thing tomorrow.”
I nodded. “Okay, noted.”
“He’ll inspect everything.”
His gaze drifted deliberately toward the bed.
“The room has to tell a story before either of us says a word.”
I followed his eyes. The pillows. The blankets. The untouched mattress.
My stomach immediately sank.
“…Right.”
He walked over and rested one hand on the mattress.
“The Council believes scent tells the truth, no matter how much we try to sell it.”
“I know.”
“They’ll expect ours to overlap.”
“I—”
“They’ll—”
“I get it.” I sighed dramatically. “We’re staging a crime scene.”
His forehead creased. “What?”
“A romantic crime scene.”
He looked genuinely confused. I gestured toward the bed.
“Messy sheets.”
“Pillows.”
“Shared blankets.”
I lowered my voice.
“They’re basically professional relationship detectives.”
“They are.”
“I was joking.”
“I wasn’t.”
“…”
“…”
“That’s somehow worse.”
Another tiny smile. It was becoming annoyingly nice. He reached down and pulled the comforter back slightly before smoothing it again.
Not making the bed. Messing it up intentionally. It felt oddly intimate watching him do something so domestic. Like he’d done it every morning for years.
Like someone used to sleep beside him. Someone who wasn’t me. The thought settled heavier than I expected.
Without thinking, my gaze drifted toward the photographs lining the shelf.
A younger Chase with Lila.
Another photo showed Sophie barely a few months old bundled in pink while Chase made a ridiculous face behind her. There were dozens of them.
Birthday cakes. Camping trips. Snow. Beach days. A family, whole, alive. Until it wasn’t.
The room suddenly made sense. Not because of the expensive furniture or polished wood. Because grief lived here, quietly.
In photographs no one had the heart to move.
I swallowed. “You never changed anything.”
His voice came softer than before. “No.”
“Why?”
He looked at the shelf for a long moment. “Because Sophie still says goodnight to her.”
That one hurt. Straight through the ribs. I looked away first. It felt wrong to stare at someone else’s grief.
The silence stretched, comfortable.
“I still hear her sometimes.”
His voice was so quiet I almost missed it.
“Not literally.”
He rubbed the back of his neck.
“But every time Sophie laughs too hard…”
He smiled without meaning to.
“…it sounds exactly like Lila.”
I didn’t know what to say.
There wasn’t a sarcastic comment big enough to stand in front of that kind of loss.
So instead…
“I think she’d be happy.”
His eyes met mine.
“That Sophie’s still laughing.”
His throat worked once. “I hope so.”
For a second neither of us moved. Just two people standing inside a room filled with memories neither of us knew how to carry.
Then my eyes landed on the bed again. One very large, obvious, impossible bed.
I pointed at it. “So.”
He followed my finger.
“So.”
“Question.”
He folded his arms. “Go ahead.”
I looked back at the mattress. “So what’s the sleeping arrangement?”
“You take whichever side you want.”
“And you?”
“The other.”
“You trust me not to push you off?”
“Well. I would add it to the list of things you’ve done to me in the past few years. I think.”
