Chapter 3
This can't be happening.
Not now. Not after everything I've just escaped from. Not when I'm finally free, finally breathing again, finally remembering what it feels like to make my own choices.
But there he is. Tristan Hayes. The man I spent two years trying to forget. The man who taught me that love could be gentle before Daxon taught me it could be violent.
Wow! He's still so hot, I hear Claire, my wolf, say.
I raise a brow. So she's still here? I'd forgotten about her existence.
Isn't he so hot? she says with the most sheepish voice I've ever heard from her.
That's not what matters now, we need to stay away from him. I say, pushing her down.
Then I let myself look at him. Really look at him. Even after five years, Tristan Hayes is impossible to miss. He's taller than I remembered, broader through the shoulders, his dark hair longer and wilder than the neat style he used to wear.
He's aged like fine wine. It looks like he hasn't aged a single day. He looks nothing like a thirty-five-year-old man.
He's scanning the crowd, those dark eyes I once knew better than my own searching for someone. For me. His jaw is tighter than I remember, his shoulders broader, but it's still him. Still the man who held me while I cried over my parents' deaths. Still the man who walked away when I needed him most.
I should run. Hide in the bathroom until he gives up and leaves. Text Orion that I made a mistake, that I'm not ready to come home after all.
But I can't move. I'm frozen in place, watching him search for me, watching the exact moment his eyes find mine across the terminal.
The world stops.
Everything stops. The noise, the chaos, the constant motion of people rushing past. For just a moment, it's five years ago and we're twenty-five again, and he's looking at me like I'm the only person who matters in the entire world.
Then reality crashes back in.
He starts walking toward me, and I can see the questions in his eyes. Questions I'm not ready to answer. Questions about where I've been, what I've been doing, why I look like a ghost of the woman he used to know.
"Athena." My name on his lips sounds like a prayer. Like he's not sure I'm real.
"Tristan." My voice comes out steadier than I feel. "I wasn't expecting... Orion......"
"I told him to go with Sarah." His eyes are searching my face, cataloging every change, every new scar. "I was free, so I volunteered."
Of course he did. Of course, after five years of silence, this is how I come home. Running straight into the arms of the man who broke my heart before I even knew what heartbreak was.
"You look..." He stops, shakes his head. "You look tired."
Tired. That's one way to put it. I look like I've been through a war. Because I have been. A war with myself, with my choices, with a man who tried to erase everything I used to be.
"It's been a long flight," I say, because it's easier than the truth.
He nods, but I can see he doesn't believe me. Tristan always could read me like a book. It used to be one of the things I loved most about him. Now it terrifies me.
"Come on," he says, reaching for my suitcase. "Let's get you home."
Home. The word hits me like a physical blow. I don't even know what that means anymore. The apartment in London was never home. The pack house was never home. Home was... home was before. Before my parents died. Before I made the worst decisions of my life. Before I learned that love was supposed to hurt.
We walk toward the exit in silence, and I can feel him stealing glances at me. Taking in the way I flinch when someone gets too close. The way I keep my head down, my shoulders hunched. The way I've learned to make myself invisible.
This isn't how I wanted to come home. Broken, defeated, with my tail between my legs. I wanted to come back triumphant, successful, with stories of my amazing life in London. Instead, I'm running away from a nightmare I created for myself.
The terminal is too bright, too loud, too full of people. Every sound makes me jump. Every sudden movement sends my heart racing. I hate that I've become this person. This scared, broken thing that jumps at shadows.
Daxon did this to me. He took the woman I used to be and systematically destroyed her, piece by piece, until all that was left was this hollow shell walking beside the man I once loved.
"Athena," Tristan says softly as we reach the parking area. "What happened to you?"
The question I've been dreading. The question I don't know how to answer without falling apart completely.
"Nothing," I lie, just like I lied to Orion. "I just... I needed to come home."
He looks at me for a long moment, and I can see the war happening behind his eyes. Part of him wants to push, to demand answers. Part of him wants to pull me into his arms and tell me everything will be okay.
But he doesn't do either. He just nods and stops beside a sleek black motorcycle.
A motorcycle. Not a car.
I stare at it for a moment, trying to reconcile this with the Tristan I used to know. The man who drove a sensible sedan and wore button-down shirts to work. The man who never took risks, never did anything remotely dangerous.
But this Tristan... this Tristan is something else entirely. He's dressed like he stepped out of some dangerous fantasy. Black leather jacket that fits him perfectly, dark jeans that hug his legs, boots that look like they could crush someone's skull. He looks nothing like the clean-cut guy I used to know. This version of Tristan is all sharp edges and shadows.
The leather jacket is worn in places, like he's had it for years. Like he's been living this life for a long time. The boots are scuffed, the jeans faded in all the right places. This isn't a costume. This is who he is now.
There's something different about him too, a hardness around his eyes, a tension in his posture that wasn't there before. And there's something dangerous about him now, something that makes other people give him a wide berth as he moves through the crowd.
I want to ask him when he started riding. When he traded his sensible sedan for something that screams rebellion. When he decided to become this version of himself that looks like he could break hearts and bones with equal ease.
But I don't. I can't. Because asking questions means opening doors I'm not ready to walk through. Because if I start asking about his life, he'll start asking about mine, and I can't handle that conversation right now.
Maybe not ever.
He pulls a helmet from the back of the bike and hands it to me. "Here."
My hands shake as I take it. Not from fear of the bike. From the way his fingers brush mine. From the way he's looking at me like he can see straight through to my soul.
I haven't been this close to a man in months. Not by choice. Not without violence following. My body remembers what it feels like to be touched in anger, and every instinct screams at me to run.
The helmet is heavier than I expected. Black, like everything else about him now. I turn it over in my hands, trying to figure out how to put it on without looking like an idiot.
But this is Tristan. Tristan who never raised his voice at me. Tristan who held me when I was falling apart. Tristan who walked away that night, yes, but who never hurt me.
The problem is, my body doesn't know the difference anymore. My body has learned that men mean pain, that closeness leads to violence, that trusting someone is the fastest way to get hurt.
I slip the helmet on, grateful for the barrier it creates between us. For the way it hides my face, my expressions, the tears I'm fighting back. For the way it muffles the world, making everything seem distant and dreamlike.
He swings his leg over the bike with practiced ease, and I realize this isn't new for him. He's been riding for a while. Long enough to make it look effortless. Long enough that the bike responds to him like an extension of his body.
The engine roars to life beneath us, and the sound sends vibrations through my entire body. It's loud, powerful, alive. Nothing like the quiet comfort of a car. This is raw, unfiltered, dangerous.
"Athena," he says, his voice muffled by his own helmet. "You okay?"
I nod, not trusting my voice. Then I approach the bike, trying to figure out how to get on without making a fool of myself. Without flinching away from his proximity.
He doesn't offer to help. Somehow, he knows I need to do this myself. Need to prove to myself that I can still function like a normal human being.
I swing my leg over and settle behind him, my body rigid with tension. Every muscle screaming at me to get away, to run, to hide. But I force myself to stay still. Force myself to breathe.
The seat is narrow, designed for two people to be close. There's no way to sit behind him without my chest pressed against his back, without my thighs bracketing his, without my arms having nowhere to go but around his waist.
"Hold on," he says, and I can hear the concern in his voice even through the helmet.
My hands find his jacket, gripping the leather like a lifeline. He's solid, warm, real. Not a memory. Not a ghost from my past. The leather is soft under my fingers, worn smooth by years of wear.
Just Tristan. Taking me home.