I have become a woman who counts the hours until darkness falls.

The midnight meetings are my oxygen now. Paul finds me in shadowed corners of the packhouse, in empty rooms where dust motes dance in moonlight, in the garden after dark when the roses close their petals. Always brief, always burning, always ending before I’m ready to let go.

By day, he plays the cold Alpha with his beautiful Luna on his arm. He barely looks at me during pack meals, his attention fixed on paperwork or conversation with the elders.

By night, he devours me like I’m the only thing keeping him alive.

The secrecy wears on me in ways I didn’t anticipate. This morning at breakfast, Sarah reaches over and straightens Paul’s collar, her fingers lingering on his neck. Her eyes find mine across the table, and her smile turns possessive, triumphant.

She knows she won.

My fork scrapes against the plate too hard. Zane glances at me from his seat, concern flickering in his green eyes.

I feel myself becoming a stranger. Jealousy curls in my stomach like smoke, and anger simmers beneath my skin at all hours. This desperate creature watching the clock, waiting for nightfall—she isn’t me.

But maybe she is now.

My body has learned to crave Paul’s touch with frightening intensity. Every nerve ending remembers his hands, his mouth, the weight of him pressing me into shadows. But my heart is beginning to demand more than stolen moments in empty hallways.

Zane notices my distraction over the following days. He increases his attention in small, persistent ways—leaving a chocolate bar on my pillow, tucking a wildflower behind my ear when he catches me in the corridor.

“What’s this for?” I ask, touching the purple petals.

“Do I need a reason to see you smile?”

He makes me laugh when crying feels like the only option. His presence is uncomplicated warmth, steady and safe.

One afternoon, the tears finally come. I’m sitting on the stone bench in the garden when they spill over, months of confusion and exhaustion breaking through my careful walls.

Strong arms wrap around me from behind. Zane doesn’t ask questions—just holds me against his broad chest while my shoulders shake with silent sobs.

“I hate seeing you hurt,” he murmurs into my hair, his breath warm against my scalp. “Whoever’s causing this, tell me and I’ll handle it.”

I almost laugh at the impossibility of that promise. Your brother is destroying me, Zane. One kiss at a time, one secret meeting at a time, and I’m letting him do it.

“It’s complicated,” I manage.

“Uncomplicate it for me.”

“I can’t.”

His arms tighten around my shoulders, and I feel his jaw clench against the top of my head. He wants to fix this—I can feel the protective instinct radiating from his body like heat.

“Then let me be here anyway,” he says quietly. “You don’t have to explain everything for me to care about you.”

I nod against his chest, and his hand strokes down my back in slow, soothing circles. For a long moment, we stay like that—his arms around my full curves, my face buried in the soft cotton of his shirt.

When I finally pull away, his green eyes search my face with an intensity that makes my heart stutter.

“Thank you, Zane.”

“Always, Morgan.”

I walk back to my room with his warmth still clinging to my skin. But when I push open the door, Paul is already there. He stands by the window, shoulders rigid, silhouette carved from shadow and barely controlled fury.

“Close the door.”

“You want to know what you are to me?” His voice drops to a growl.

Then his mouth crashes against mine, rough and demanding, swallowing my protest before it forms. I try to resist—I try to hold onto my anger, my dignity, my demand for something better than this.

But my body betrays me with shameful eagerness. My fingers curl into his shirt, pulling him closer instead of pushing him away. My lips part for his tongue, and a moan escapes my throat.

Our fight dissolves into rough intimacy against the wall. His hands grip my hips hard enough to bruise, and I arch into him like I’m starving for his touch.

Because I am.

Afterward, gasping for breath, I finally ask the question burning in my throat.

“What am I to you, Paul?” My voice comes out broken, desperate. “Really?”

His jaw works silently for a long moment. I watch the war playing out behind his eyes—duty against desire, logic against whatever this is between us.

Finally, he pulls me close, pressing his forehead against mine.

“Everything.” The word is a confession, ripped from somewhere deep inside him. “And nothing I can acknowledge. Not yet.”

Not yet.

It has to be enough—those two words, that fragile promise of someday. I tell myself it’s enough as his arms wrap around me in the darkness.

But my heart knows the truth, even if I can’t speak it.

I want more than stolen moments with a man who can only love me in secret.