POV: Chloe
When I returned to the dining room, Tristan was already seated. He looked exactly the same. Unbothered. One hand rested loosely around his wine glass, acting like the last fifteen minutes never happened. Only I knew what still burned beneath the collar of my dress. Ethan stood the second he saw me, his eyes scanning my face.
"You okay? You look pale."
"I'm fine." I slid into my seat and grabbed my glass. "Sorry."
He watched me for a second, then sat back down. His hand found mine under the table, squeezing once. I let him hold it, staring at my plate. I tried desperately to ignore Tristan sitting across from me.
"I've spoken to Mrs. Hale," Tristan announced, setting his glass down with finality. "The road is flooding. No one is driving down tonight."
Ethan frowned. "Tris..."
"It isn't a discussion." His tone was flat—like stating a fact. "The storm will pass by morning. You'll stay."
He left absolutely no room for argument. Ethan absorbed this, then shot me an apologetic smile.
"He's right. The road becomes a river when it rains." He tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. "I'll stay with you, okay? You won't be alone."
Tristan's gaze snapped to his brother.
"Actually." A deliberate pause. "While you're under my roof, you will respect the rules."
Ethan blinked. "What rules?"
"The ones our father established." Tristan lifted his glass again. "An unmated female stays in her room. Alone."
The table went dead silent. Ethan opened his mouth, closed it, then let out a laugh of disbelief.
"Tris, we're not seventeen. We’re adults."
"I'm aware." Tristan's eyes didn't stray from his brother. "The rules stand."
I watched Ethan's expression cycle through protest, frustration, and finally, reluctant respect. He exhaled hard.
"Fine," he muttered. He turned to me, lowering his voice. "Sorry. He's serious about this."
"It's fine," I said. And it was, simply because I had zero alternative.
The guest room was massive. High ceilings, pale walls, and a window overlooking the storm-battered gardens. Mrs. Hale had turned down the bed and left a lamp burning. Everything about the room felt impersonal. Except for the pajamas folded on the mattress.
I picked them up. Soft cotton. Pale blue. Not satin, not silk, not anything a housekeeper would pick for a guest. Exactly the kind I used to wear when I was twenty-two, falling asleep in Tristan's arms after fucking for hours. I set them down carefully and stared at them, my heart pounding.
He remembers.
The thought hit me hard, and I had no idea what to do. I changed, killed the light, and lay in bed, listening to the rain assault the glass. Sleep came eventually, but it was uneasy, packed with dirty memories I'd spent years trying to suppress.
I didn't hear the door. What woke me was the air. That trace of cedarwood and smoke that had been haunting me since I arrived. My eyes snapped open, and I found the room wasn't dark anymore.
A door stood open in the wall.
Tristan leaned in the frame, dressed in black, clutching something in his fist. The passage behind him smelled of stone. He watched me sit up, radiating the patience of a predator waiting for his prey to catch up.
"There's a door in my wall," I breathed.
"There is."
"It was always there." He added and stepped inside, and the door swung shut. "This room was part of the master suite. During the renovation, I built the partition but kept the passage."
I pulled the blanket up, acting on pure reflex.
"Why?" I asked.
Something flashed across his face. "Because I told you once," he rasped, "that if we ever got married and you locked me out when you were pissed, I'd need a way to sneak in and fuck the anger out of you."
The memory hit me like a truck. His low laugh on a Sunday morning, his chin resting on my head while I bitched about something stupid. “I'll build a secret door,” he’d teased. “Husband privileges.” I'd called him an idiot, and he'd kissed me until I melted against his cock. I dug my fingers into the blanket.
"Tristan. What do you want?" I asked, trying to clear my head.
He opened his hand. Two rings sat on his palm. Worn bands, cheap and unmistakable. I had bought them from a stall on a rainy afternoon while he complained they weren't real silver. I told him that was the point. Proof that it was about us.
He still wore his. I'd seen it on his finger the moment he walked downstairs. But mine was there too—the one I'd shoved into his hand the morning I ran.
"I'm returning it," he growled. His voice was tightly controlled. "You left it behind when you decided I wasn't worth keeping."
"That isn't—"
"Seven years, Chloe." His control cracked. He stalked toward the bed, and I froze, pinned by his stare. His gaze held a feral intensity, bred from years of holding back. "No note. No reason. You were just gone."
"You don't know what happened."
"Then tell me." He stopped at the edge of the mattress, towering over me. Zain was scratching at the surface. I could feel his wolf like a physical pressure in the room. "Tell me right now, and I will listen. But don't you dare say it was nothing. I wore your ring for seven years, and I have never once..."
He choked on the words, fighting back a primal roar.
"Tell me why you left, Chloe. Tell me what happened seven years ago that made you run," he demanded, barely containing his rage.
"I saw you, Tris. I saw..." My voice cracked as the memories flooded back.
"You saw what?" he barked. "Tell me, Chloe. What did you see?"
He pushed closer, starving for the truth. I looked away, refusing to meet his eyes.
Then Tristan snatched my hand. Not gently. Not like his restrained grip in the foyer. He gripped my wrist like a man reclaiming his stolen property. Before I could flinch, he shoved the ring onto my finger. The metal slid home like a lock clicking shut.
"Tristan..."
"It belongs there."
"I'm with your brother..."
"I know who you're with." His thumb stroked the ring, pinning my hand down. His eyes locked onto mine. "I know who you're with. I know exactly how wet you got when I bit you tonight. And I know you felt that pull again the second I walked through that door." His voice dropped to a filthy whisper. "You can lie to Ethan. You can lie to yourself. But don't lie to me, Chloe."
Just then, three loud knocks hammered the bedroom door, and we both froze.
"Chloe?"