[Claire’s POV]
I corner him in the kitchen the next morning, which feels appropriately dramatic for someone who spent the night learning supernatural creatures are real and she's cosmically bound to one.
Hugh freezes mid-pour, coffee carafe suspended over his mug like I've caught him committing a felony.
"We need to talk," I announce, blocking his escape route. "And before you vanish into the night again—yes, I know it's morning, the metaphor still stands—I have questions. Not about the mate thing, but what is about to happen next."
He sets down the carafe with deliberate care. "Claire."
"Don't 'Claire' me in that tone.” My tone is not much better—but it’s tired and strict instead. “The one that says you're about to be reasonable and measured while simultaneously crushing my soul. I've heard it before, and I'm not a fan."
"The original plan hasn't changed." His voice is flat, final. "You'll move to California in the fall, just like your father arranged. Go to college, build a life, and we forget about all of this."
I stare at him, waiting for the punchline. I didn’t come.
"You're serious. You're actually serious right now.” I throw up my hands in disbelief. “I discover I'm your ‘fated mate’—your words, not mine—and your solution is to let me be shipped across the country and pretend it never happened?"
"It changes nothing for you." He turns away, busying himself with his coffee as if I’m not even here.
That arrogant half-wolf ass!
"The bond doesn’t affect you the way it affects me.” His voice has gone clinical and he’s not even looking at me. “The heat was just an initial reaction to almost constant proximity for the last year, and unlikely to happen again if I'm not around. And since I won't be around, you’ll be just fine. I'll manage."
"You'll manage," I repeat slowly, tasting the words for the lie they are. "That's your master plan? I leave, you suffer in noble silence, and we both pretend the universe didn't just tell us we're meant to be together. Very healthy, very fucking sustainable."
"It's the only option that makes sense." He still won't look at me. "Your father wants you safe and far from this world. I want the same thing. What you want—"
"Oh, please do tell me what I want." The anger rises hot and fast. "Since apparently everyone else gets to decide that for me."
I’m waiting for his response for what feels like eternity but probably just a few seconds, but he just keeps staring out of the window above the counter.
As if trying to ignore me like I’m some kind of irritating child that keeps complaining about ‘ten more minutes’ and doesn’t want to go to bed. Fuck. Him.
"If you're so determined to erase me from your life, at least let me understand what I'm walking away from. Let me meet other werewolves, see how your world works.” It’s a desperate bid, I know it and I do it anyway. “Give me something before you shove me on a plane and forget I exist."
"That's not possible.” That finally makes him turn, his expression shifting to something complicated. “Introducing a human to pack dynamics is dangerous and politically complicated. You don't understand what you're asking."
"Then explain it to me! I'm not asking to move in with the wolves, Hugh. I just want to understand who you are. What this bond means!"
"You're my mate," he says, and the word sounds like it tears down his very soul. "That's supposed to mean everything to my kind. It's the most sacred thing a werewolf can ever have."
"Supposed to," I echo. "Past tense. Conditional."
"That's exactly the problem, Claire. Werewolves and humans were enemies for centuries.” His voice rises slightly, but somehow it’s not as threatening as he clearly means it to be. “We hunted each other, killed each other. The peace between our species is recent, barely a generation old, and fragile as glass.”
His expression hardens and I don't like the way he looks at me right now.
It makes some strange little thing inside me stirring with need to lean into him, to cradle him and make him look at me with care and longing again. To make him want me again.
“Both sides still carry deep-seated prejudice.” he continued, voice low. "Disdain for the others that most try to hide to maintain the truce, but it's there. Simmering under every interaction."
"So what? People are prejudiced. That's not exactly breaking news." I cross my arms. "What does that have to do with us?"
"Everything." He steps closer, amber flickering at the edges of his gray eyes. "Relationships between werewolves and humans aren't just frowned upon. They're seen as a betrayal by both sides.”
There’s an edge of roughness in his voice, as if he doesn't like the truth he’s forced to reveal.
“Some of my kind would call it weakness. An Alpha who can't control his instincts enough to resist a human…” He shakes his head. “Others would call it an abomination, a perversion of everything we're supposed to be."
"An abomination. That's what they'd call us?"
"If anyone found out about what you are to me—there would be consequences.” The truth seems to cost him something. “Threats. Not just for me, Claire, but for you. People who would see you as a liability at best, a target at worst.”
His eyes focus on mine with an intensity that almost makes me back off.
“Do you want to spend your life looking over your shoulder, wondering if today's the day someone decides the abomination needs to be dealt with?" The fear in his eyes isn't for himself—it's for me.
And that’s exactly what makes it so much harder to dismiss.
"So that's it," I manage, my voice smaller than I want. "We just... don't? We pretend this bond doesn't exist, and I go to California, and we move on like none of it mattered?"
"Yes." The word is flat, final. "As I said, we're not acting on this bond, Claire. We're not advertising it. You go to California. You build a normal life with normal people who won't put you in danger just by existing near you. And I…"
He stops, something breaking behind his eyes and this little thing inside me stirring again, eager and willing to do anything to comfort… my mate?
"I have work to do, security to handle," he exhaled at last. "Real threats that don't care about feelings or fate."
He moves past me toward the door and I know with all my being that I should say something—demand he stop making decisions for me, stop treating me like a fragile thing.
But my throat is tight with anger and hurt and something that feels embarrassingly like grief, and the words won't come.
The door closes behind him with a soft click that sounds like an ending. Like my silly hopes. Like my broken heart.
I stand there processing, emotions churning.
Anger at him for deciding my future, our future. Hurt that he can dismiss what we are so easily. Frustration that I'm still being kept at arm's length. After a few minutes of wallowing, something sharper cuts through the self-pity.
Defiance, maybe. Or just stubbornness dressed up in better clothes.
I'm not fucking done.
I'm not letting him have the last word just because he decided the conversation was over. I march out of the main house and across the grounds toward the guest house, rehearsing speeches in my head.
Demands for answers. Ultimatums about respect and autonomy. A really cutting remark about his emotional unavailability that I'm still workshopping. But when I reach his door, I freeze.
Through the wood, I can hear him moving inside—footsteps, the creak of floorboards. And suddenly every speech I'd prepared evaporates, leaving me standing there with my hand raised to knock and absolutely nothing to say.
What would I even demand?
That he love me openly despite the danger? That he choose me over his pack, everything he's built? That he risk both our lives for a bond I barely understand?
The anger drains away, leaving something hollower behind.
I stand there like an idiot, frozen in indecision, my raised fist hovering inches from the door. He's so close I could reach him in seconds, and yet he's never felt further away. My feeling of safety demands me to be as far as possible.
I force my hand down. Force my feet to turn. Force myself to walk away from the door without knocking, without demanding, without doing any of the brave things I'd imagined.
Some battles you're not ready to fight. Some doors stay closed no matter how hard you want to knock.
Today, this is mine.