Ex-Mate Wants Me Back (Seraphina and Mortimer) novel Chapter 81

Chapter 81

Third Person’s POV

Club Empire One.

“Enough. Look at you. You’re hitting the bottle like you’ve got a death wish. Give it here.”

The private lounge was a graveyard of high-end labels

Wilmot sat across from him, watching the train wreck for an hour before he finally reached out and snatched the bottle from

Mortimer’s hand.

Mortimer didn’t fight him.

He just sank deeper into the velvet sofa, staring at nothing.

His eyes were hooded, the corners bled a jagged scarlet-maybe it was the bourbon, or maybe it was the predator in his gut starting to claw its way out.

“What’s the damage? I’ve never seen you this trashed. Who got under your skin?” Wilmot asked, his voice dripping with curiosity. He already had a pretty good guess. 1

Mortimer’s eyelids flickered, but he didn’t give up a single word.

He just reached for a glass of neat Scotch and downed it.

“Is this about Seraphina?” Wilmot asked, leaning in.

Mortimer froze.

He lifted his bloodshot eyes and cut a look at Wilmot that could have peeled paint.

“Why the hell would you bring her up?” his voice was a shredded rasp. He yanked at his collar, his movements erratic and violent.

The alcohol was acting like a catalyst, turning his usual icy control into a volatile, explosive mess.

“So it’s not her?” Wilmot smirked, enjoying the show a little too much.

Mortimer ignored him and reached for another pour.

“Too bad. Because she’s in deep over at the healing center. Did you know?”

The bottle in Mortimer’s hand stopped mid-air.

He forced himself to stay numb, his pride acting as a firewall, and took another slow sip.

Since he didn’t ask, Wilmot didn’t offer. He just leaned back, scrolling through his phone with agonizing slowness.

The silence in the room was a physical weight, broken only by the slosh of ice.

Mortimer finally snapped. He looked up at his friend, his voice tight with a desperation he couldn’t hide. “What happened to her?”

Wilmot arched an eyebrow and tossed his phone across the table.

“Rolf crashed tonight. It’s a mess. His parents are cornering her at Shadowfang, looking for blood.”

Mortimer snatched the phone.

The messages were from Trista.

15

+15 Bonus

She was nitking Mortimer’s character, calling him a “useless mate,” but the details were clear: Seraphina was alone in the trenches, facing down the Davids family.

“Look, I’m out,” Wilmot said, grabbing his coat. “Trista is pissed at you, which means she’s taking it out on me. I’ve gotta go play damage control.”

He took his phone back and headed for the doos

Mortimer sat alone in the hollow room, crushing his empty glass.

“Screw her. She’s a professional. I’m staying put,” he muttered, his voice a bitter, self-mocking scowl. He downed the last drop.

But before the burn even hit his stomach, his wolf-Barton-let out a frantic, agonized roar.

The mating bond was acting like a whip, lashing his sanity.

Thirty seconds later, a violent curse echoed in the lounge. “Damn it! I’m a dead man!”

Mortimer slammed the glass onto the table, grabbed his jacket, and stormed out, trailing a thick, toxic cloud of expensive booze and raw Alpha energy.

Shadowfang Healing Center. 12:15 AM.

The inpatient wing was a tomb. The only sound was the low hum of the nurses’ station.

Mortimer stepped into the hall, his wolf senses picking up every whispered syllable from twenty yards away.

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