The morning light spills into my room like honey poured from a slow hand—golden, thick, reluctant. It pools across the marble floor, climbs the walls, touches everything with warmth.

I stand beside the glass wall, staring out at the garden. My hair is a mess—dark strands falling across my forehead, untouched. My eyes are tired. Heavy.

My hand reaches for the handle. I slide the glass door open.

Cold air rushes in—sharp, sudden, alive. It hits my face like a quiet slap, stealing the warmth from my skin, replacing it with something bracing. Almost relief. The air carries the faint scent of wet grass—still damp with night dew—and the soft perfume of white roses in bloom.

Beautiful. Untouched.

I close my eyes. Take a deep breath. Let the cold fill my lungs.

Last night, I couldn’t sleep.

The thought drifts through me like smoke. Unbidden. Unwelcome.

I don’t know why.

Maybe because of the drunken Beta.

My fingers rise on their own—traitors to my will. They find my chin. The place where his lips pressed last night.

The memory of his breath—warm, wine-sweet, deliberate—lingers like a ghost I can’t shake. My fingertips brush the spot slowly. Once. Twice.

Why was my heart beating so fast?

I’ve never felt like that before. Not once. Not with anyone.

My eyes open slowly. The garden swims back into focus—the roses, the dew, the morning light that refuses to understand my mood. I push my hand away from my chin.

What the hell am I thinking?

It’s probably because it’s the first time someone got that close to my face. I’ve never allowed it before.

That’s all it was.

Proximity. Surprise. Nothing more.

My fists clench at my sides. Nails bite into my palms—a small pain, grounding.

I won’t let this slide.

He needs to answer for what he did.

I warned him. Stay away. Don’t cross the line. And he keeps breaking it—again, again, again. Like my words mean nothing.

I turn from the glass wall and walk out of the room. Anger burns behind my eyes—low and steady, like coals waiting for fuel.

I scan the living room. Empty.

The couches sit in their usual arrangement, untouched. Morning light stretches across the floor in long rectangles, dust motes drifting through it like tiny stars. No one.

Maybe he’s still upstairs.

I turn toward the stairs—

A noise stops me. From the kitchen. Cooking.

The clink of utensils. The soft slide of something being stirred.

So he’s already awake.

My footsteps carry me toward the kitchen—measured, deliberate—hard against the marble. Each step echoes in the quiet. The space opens into the kitchen.

Silas stands at the counter. Shoulders relaxed beneath the soft fabric of his shirt. He moves with quiet ease—unhurried, like he has all the time in the world.

In my kitchen. Making breakfast. Like this is normal. Like this is his.

A pan hisses softly on the stove. The scent of something warm—eggs, toast, maybe herbs—drifts through the air, curling around me, trying to soften what I came here to do.

I step forward.

He lifts his gaze. Finds me.

And the soft smile spreads across his lips—quickly, instinctively, like it was waiting for me to appear.

He sets the spatula aside. Pours milk into a glass—slow, careful, the white liquid rising in a smooth arc. He walks toward me.

His face is fresh. Rested. The kind of fresh that comes from sleep so deep it washes everything away.

The soft smile still rests on his lips. Gentle. Untroubled. Unaware. Too calm.

Does he not remember?

He offers me the glass. His smile brightens—if that’s even possible. Like he’s presenting a gift. Like this small act of service brings him joy.

I look down at the glass. Milk. Plain. White. Innocent. Then back at his face.

Does he think I’m a child?

I take it from his hand. Our fingers brush—brief. Accidental. Warm. Soft. The same warmth that pressed against my chin last night.

A dry laugh escapes me. Just a flicker. Then it’s gone—swallowed by the cold rising in my chest.

My voice comes out low. Flat. Sharp at the edges. "Don’t you think you’re the one who needs this?"

I set the glass on the counter. Calmly. Deliberately. The sound against the marble is small—but final.

I look at him.

"A weak Beta. Can’t even handle one glass of wine."

A pause.

"How pathetic."

His smile fades. Just a little. At the corners. He glances at the glass—then back at me. Confusion flickers in his eyes.

Soft. Uncertain. Like he’s trying to understand a language he doesn’t speak.

And then—

I move.

In one smooth motion, I catch both his wrists in one hand. My fingers close around them—pale skin, fragile bones.

I pin him against the wall.

My gaze is cold. Cold enough to make men look away.

His back hits the marble with a soft thud—not violent, but final. Trapped between stone and my anger.

He blinks.

Shock flickers across his face—just a shadow. Just a moment. His lips part slightly, but no sound comes. There’s never any sound.

"Who the hell do you think you are?"

My voice drops—lower, rougher—scraping against the quiet.

"Crossing the line again and again. I warned you. I told you. Stay away from me. Don’t touch me. And you—"

I stop.

My jaw tightens.

He just blinks at me. His brows draw together—confusion. Real confusion. Like he’s searching his memory— and finding nothing.

I stare at him. The silence stretches—thin, taut, ready to snap.

"Don’t you remember?"

My voice is quieter now.

"What you did last night?"

Calmly. Simply. He shakes his head.

No.

Something in me slips—just a fraction. My voice flattens. Deliberate. Controlled. "Are you lying to me?"

He shakes his head again.

No.

Quick. Certain.

His eyes catch the golden light—clear, unguarded. No guile. No cunning. Just... him.

Those eyes. Last night, they were different. Burning. Alive. Like something had awakened in them.

But now— Now they’re the same as always. Soft. Warm. Unreadable.

I stare at them. Try to dig in. Listen. For something. Anything. Nothing. Silence.

Again. Failure.

Why can’t I read him? The thought settles in my chest like a stone—heavy, cold. Why is his mind so silent?

It irritates me.

Everyone has noise. Thoughts that leak through their eyes, their expressions, the small movements they can’t control.

But him— Nothing. Just silence.

Just those eyes, staring back at me— like I’m the one who should be understood.

He doesn’t look away. He stares back at me—patient, waiting, unafraid.

There’s nothing on his face. No guilt. No fear. No shame. None of the tells that betray a liar. Just calmness. Stillness. The quiet of a lake at dawn.

My grip loosens on his wrists, slowly, reluctantly.

So he doesn’t remember. Maybe he was drunk. Or he’s pretending not to.

I release his wrists and let my hands fall to my sides.

I turn away.

Behind me, he moves—the soft shuffle of his steps, the whisper of fabric. His hand reaches for my sleeve. I don’t stop. I don’t turn back.

"Don’t disturb me."

My voice is sharp. Cold. Final.

I walk away. My hand rises to my temple. I rub slow circles, trying to press the thoughts out of my head.

Why can’t I read him?

What the hell is he hiding behind those damn jewel eyes?