The Lunar Curse: A Second Chance With Alpha Draven novel Chapter 173

Chapter 173: Afraid to Hurt Her

Draven.

As soon as Meredith stepped out and closed the door behind her, I drew in a breath so deep it scraped the edges of my lungs—and released it just as slowly.

The silence that followed felt heavier than it should have.

My gaze lingered on the door for a heartbeat longer before I turned away, rolling my shoulders to push off the weight that had settled there. Even now, the memory of what had happened before dawn refused to let go.

I could still feel it.

That unnatural, crawling itch in my gums, right under the roots of my fangs. The raw hunger that had flared without warning. And worse—the terrible, sinking realization that I had leaned so close to Meredith’s neck that I could see the faint pulse beat just under her skin.

My chest tightened.

I had recoiled in horror when I realized how near I’d come to sinking my teeth into her flesh—not in the way a mate marks, but in a mindless, feral thirst that had nothing to do with love or bond.

When I’d sat up on the bed, chest heaving, I had known instantly that staying beside her was dangerous.

So, I had gotten off the bed and stumbled into the bathroom, the marble floor cool under my bare feet. Standing before the mirror, I had forced myself to look—really look.

The sight of my fangs, elongated and sharp, had twisted something cold in my gut.

I had brushed my teeth hard—hard enough that my gums had bled slightly—hoping the sting would numb the maddening itch.

It hadn’t worked.

When I returned to the bedroom, Meredith had shifted in her sleep, exhaling softly—and that small movement alone had been enough. Her scent, warm and soft, carried on the still air, and it was like pouring oil over smouldering coals.

I had tried to lie down on the sofa in the living area. But even there, her lavender scent seeped into me—unshakable, insistent.

My gums had itched so badly my hands curled into fists.

So, I had left. Walked into the dressing room, dressed quickly in casual black trousers and a shirt, pulled on my boots, and stepped out of the room entirely.

The moment I crossed the threshold, relief had flooded me, just barely.

I had spent the next three hours running. Through the silent paths of the estate, between the trimmed hedges and across the gravel courtyards.

My breaths had come harsh and ragged, my heart hammering against my ribs not from exhaustion, but from the need to feel something other than that wild, feral hunger.

I had patrolled every inch of the grounds, circled the northern fence twice, passed the training yard still empty before dawn—and still I kept going, until the sky began to lighten and the birds dared to sing again.

Only then had I returned.

And now, standing here, the memory clung like sweat on my skin.

I closed my eyes, drew another deep breath, then crossed the room to the bed. My steps were slow, deliberate.

The sheets still carried her scent. Faint, yes—but enough to stir an echo of that itch. I clenched my jaw.

"I can’t," I muttered under my breath.

My hands moved automatically: stripping the sheets, pulling off the pillowcases, folding them and setting them aside. The cotton felt too soft under my fingers, too familiar.

I went to the wardrobe, pulled out fresh linens—plain, clean, untouched by her—and remade the bed. Then I retrieved the small brass canister from the drawer, pressed the nozzle, and let the cool scent of cedarwood and mint spill into the air.

The fragrance layered itself over the room, trying to mask the lavender that still clung stubbornly to the corners, to the drapes, to the very air.

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