I surface from sleep like a man rising through dark water.

Slow. Unsteady. Unwilling.

My eyes open. Blink once. Twice.

The ceiling comes into focus—the same one I’ve stared at for years. Dim lights set into polished marble, their glow soft. Indifferent. They’ve watched me fall asleep a thousand times. They’ve never seen me like this.

Everything is where it should be. Everything is normal. Except for the weight on my chest.

Except for the warmth pressed against my side—like a second skin I never asked for.

I don’t remember falling asleep. The last thing I recall is his crying—soft, broken breaths against my shirt, settling somewhere beneath my ribs.

Unwanted. Persistent.

Then nothing. A blank space. Darkness swallowing everything whole.

And now—this.

Silas’s head still rests on my chest. Like something that landed without permission—and stayed.

His arms are wrapped around my waist, fingers curled into my shirt, holding on with a grip that speaks of nightmares. Fear. Something else I don’t name.

I look down at him.

His breathing is slow now. Steady. The frantic rhythm from before has settled into something deeper. Quieter.

His lashes are dark against his pale cheeks—clumped, still tacky with dried tears, faint tracks marking his skin. His face presses into my chest, lips slightly parted.

My shirt is damp where he cried into it.

And my hand—my traitorous hand—rests on his back. Rising. Falling. With each breath.

Like it belongs there. Like I let it.

I push back. Quick. Too quick.

The movement jars us both. For a moment, I feel the pull of his weight—the way his body instinctively tries to hold on.

I don’t let myself stop. I can’t.

I can’t believe I fell asleep like this. Letting him cling to me. Letting him use me like I’m nothing more than a pillow. Like this—my chest—is all I have to offer.

I try to shift him.

He’s heavier than he looks.

Not muscle—no. There’s nothing formidable about his frame. Slender. Almost delicate. The kind of build that makes other Alphas look twice and think easy prey.

My face tightens.

He’s sleeping so peacefully. Like I’m nothing more than a place to rest. A warm body in the dark.

My arm has gone numb beneath him. Not from weight—from stillness. From holding there too long. From not knowing what to do with someone who clings like that.

I look at his face. Innocent. Untroubled. Untouched by whatever’s tearing through me.

My voice comes out flat. Hard. "Hey. Wake up."

He doesn’t move at first. Just shifts—a small sound slipping from his lips, somewhere between a sigh and a protest.

His face brushes against my chest. Seeking warmth. Comfort. Something I don’t name.

His grip tightens around my waist.

What the hell is this...

He’s getting on my nerves.

My hand lifts to his cheek. I pinch. Hard enough to sting. Hard enough to wake him.

His eyes fly open.

Wide. Unfocused. Caught between sleep and waking as his pupils slowly settle on my face. Confusion flickers. Then something else— guilt.

"Finally," I say, voice clipped. "You’re awake."

He blinks at me. His hair is a mess—strands falling over his forehead, softened from sleep.

"Don’t stare." I shift beneath him. "Move. You’re heavy."

He straightens quickly—too quickly, like my words burned him.

His hands retreat from my waist. The sudden absence of warmth leaves something cold in its wake. Something I don’t acknowledge.

He sits there. Hair messy. Eyes still glistening. Cheeks faintly flushed.

I straighten. Stretch my arms above my head, working the stiffness from my shoulders, the numbness in my legs.

My voice is cold when I speak. "This is the last time. Don’t cling to me like that again. I warned you."

I pause. Let it settle. "Next time, I’ll throw you out of this house. Do you understand?"

He nods. Slow. Careful. Like he’s afraid of getting it wrong.

I look away.

"Now explain." My voice sharpens. "What were you doing there?"

He doesn’t answer. He never does. Instead, he reaches for the notebook and pencil on the table—his hands still trembling, the movement giving it away.

He writes. Tears the page. Hands it to me.

I take the note without looking at him. Force my eyes to the words.

I was texting you. You didn’t reply. I was worried. I asked Everic. He said you go to that club often, so I went there to find you. Before I could reach you—those men dragged me into the bathroom. Against my will.

My brows draw together. Anger rises—sharp, immediate. Familiar. Easy.

Worried about me.

The paper crumples in my fist. I toss it aside and look at him. "Are you stalking me now?" My voice cuts. "Like some typical wife?"

He shakes his head—quick, frantic.

No.

His pencil moves again. Faster this time. Another page. He holds it out.

I take it. Rough. Look down.

No. I wasn’t stalking you. I thought you might be drunk. I went there to bring you back. I was worried.

A laugh slips out—dry. Hollow. It cuts through the silence. "Worried about me?"

I crush the note in my fist.

"You should worry about yourself." My voice drops. Low. Controlled. "If you follow me like that again—" A pause. "I’ll hand you over to them myself."

Another beat. "I won’t intervene." My gaze stays on him. "I’ll let them do whatever they want."

He looks down at his hands. His shoulders fold in on themselves—smaller. Quieter.

I stand.

Worried about me. What a joke.

I walk toward my room.

My footsteps echo against the polished marble—heavy, deliberate. Each one putting distance between us.

Then I stop. Suddenly. Irritatingly.

I don’t want to turn back. Every instinct tells me to keep walking. To close the door. Let the silence swallow whatever this is.

Before I think—

I turn.

My voice is flat.

"Don’t go outside alone again. Take your guards. Or your secretary. I don’t care who. Just don’t go alone."

His head lifts.

He looks at me—those brown eyes wide, searching. Like he’s trying to understand something I’m not saying.

Then he nods. Slow.

My voice hardens. "This is the last time. I won’t help you again." A beat. "Do you hear me? I won’t come for you."

He nods again. Small. Enough.

I turn. Walk through the doorway.

Seriously.

Someone who can’t even protect himself—Worried about me.