Dno't Be His Forbidden Mate

I didn't move right away.

That's what I remember most about that moment — the stillness of it. Darius on the couch. Seraphina in his lap. Four pairs of eyes sliding over me like I was a smudge on the wall. The word *cleaner* still hanging in the air, almost visible, almost solid enough to touch.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, a quieter version of me was still there — the girl who had believed him, the one who had folded herself small enough to fit into his life without taking up space. She was watching this happen from a great distance. Watching and going very, very still.

And then she disappeared.

I didn't slam the door. I didn't say anything. I just walked back out into the hallway and pulled the door shut behind me with a soft, deliberate click, and I stood there in the corridor with the hum of the building around me and thought: *Okay.*

Just that. Okay.

Cassian was on the steps outside.

He was sitting with his elbows on his knees, his eye already swollen to a thin purple crescent, and he looked up when I came through the door like he'd been expecting me. Not with surprise. Just recognition.

I sat down beside him on the cold concrete and for a moment neither of us said anything.

"He introduced me as the house cleaner," I finally said. "In my own apartment. In front of his friends."

Cassian didn't say anything. He didn't make a sound. But something shifted in his jaw — a slow tightening, like a door being pulled shut on something loud.

He stood up. "Come on."

That was all.

I didn't ask where we were going. He didn't explain. We walked to his car and drove away, and the city moved past the windows in long yellow streaks, and I watched it and didn't feel much, and that was somehow better than feeling everything.

---

He brought me to the Blackwood estate, which I had only ever seen from a distance — stone gates, old trees, the kind of permanence that had nothing to prove. He showed me to a guest room and said there were towels under the sink and food in the kitchen and that I should take whatever I needed. Then he left me alone.

But I still had nothing with me. Just my coat and my phone and a folded printout in my pocket that I hadn't looked at since the hospital.

I went back.

I told myself it would take twenty minutes. In and out. I knew exactly what I needed to take — not much, because I hadn't brought much. That was the thing about Darius's apartment: I had always kept my things light there. Like some part of me had known, even then, not to fully unpack.

He was waiting in the doorway when I came back.

The friends were gone. Seraphina was gone. It was just Darius, and he was leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed and the particular expression he wore when he was performing patience — slightly weary, slightly wounded, like I was the one who'd done something wrong.

"Elara." His voice was careful. "Can we talk?"

I walked past him into the bedroom.

He followed. "It was a joke. The cleaner thing. I was — look, it was stupid, I know that, but they were being idiots and I just said the first thing—"

I pulled my bag out from the back of the closet and set it on the bed.

"Talia just needed somewhere to crash," he continued. His voice shifted slightly, just slightly, finding its way toward something softer. "I should've called you. I know that. But it's not what you're making it into."

I opened the drawer on my side of the bed. Took out the three things I kept there. Put them in the bag.

"Elara." A beat. Then, quieter: "You're being dramatic."

There it was. That word again.

I zipped the bag closed. Then I turned around and looked at him — really looked, maybe for the first time in months, the way you look at something when you're not trying to see what you want to see.

"You called me a toy," I said. "In the group chat. *Easier than a doll*. That's what they said, and you didn't correct them." My voice was very level. "There were photos, Darius. Of me. Of *us*. And you shared them. And when someone asked if you felt bad about it—" I stopped. Let the silence do the rest.

He didn't move.

"You didn't say stop," I finished.

The room was very quiet.

I had thought, maybe, that saying it out loud would make me cry. Or shake. Or feel some version of the thing I'd been carrying around in my chest since I'd read those messages — that low, sick weight of having believed someone who had never believed in me.

But I just felt clear. Like glass after rain.

Darius Kane stood in the doorway of his own bedroom and said nothing.

For the first time in two years, I had given him something he had no answer for. No version to spin, no smooth explanation to offer. Just the plain shape of what he'd done, laid out in words he recognized.

I picked up my bag.

He moved back. I didn't wait to see what his face did.

---

The guest room at Blackwood smelled like pine and something older — cedar, maybe, and the kind of quiet that has been there long enough to become part of the walls. Not the silence of an empty apartment. Something more settled than that.

I sat on the edge of the bed and didn't turn on the light.

Outside, the estate was still. Through the window I could see the outline of trees against a gray sky, their shapes unhurried and permanent. My bag sat at my feet. My coat was still on.

After a while, I let myself lie back.

I put one hand on my stomach. Not consciously. Just the way I'd been doing since the hospital, that small instinctive gesture, my body checking in on the thing it was still trying to process.

Eight weeks.

I breathed in slowly. Then out.

For the first time all day — maybe longer than that, maybe for months — I noticed that I was breathing. Just breathing, without holding anything back, without making myself smaller, without waiting for the room to shift around someone else's mood.

It didn't feel like much.

But it felt like mine.

---

In his study at the far end of the estate, Rowan Blackwood reviewed the incident report from the hospital.

He was not a man who made noise when he read. He sat very still behind a wide mahogany desk, the lamp throwing a narrow circle of gold across the papers, and he moved through the details of the afternoon systematically: the altercation, the injury, the woman who had been struck in the crossfire.

He paused at her name.

*Thorne, Elara. Age 22. No pack affiliation. No wolf.*

He read it again. Something in his chest shifted — not pain exactly. More like the feeling of a door that had been shut for a long time, and something pressing against the other side.

Isolde Thorne had stood in this estate once. Twenty years ago, when the world was a different shape. She had looked at him like she expected better, and he had not been that man. He had let her leave and told himself it was the right thing, and by the time he understood it wasn't, she was already gone.

He set the report down.

His security chief stood near the door, waiting.

"Make sure the Thorne girl has everything she needs," Rowan said. His voice was even. Quiet. The kind of voice that had learned, over decades, to keep its own feelings at a distance. "Quietly."

The chief nodded and left.

Rowan remained at his desk. Outside, a wind moved through the old trees, and the lamp flickered once, then held.

He didn't ask himself why he'd said it.

He already knew better than to ask.