Three days of being actively avoided by an extremely rich werewolf, and I've learned something important about myself.
I have absolutely no chill.
And Hugh has turned disappearing into an art form.
He vanishes whenever I enter a room. Takes meals at hours that suggest he's either nocturnal or deliberately torturing me. Perfected the art of suddenly needing to be elsewhere the moment I appear.
If avoiding your fated mate were an Olympic sport, he'd be taking home gold.
I've spent my newfound alone time falling down an internet rabbit hole. My browser history is now a concerning mix of "werewolf folklore origins," "are mate bonds real," and "how to tell if someone is a werewolf"—which the internet is spectacularly wrong about by the way.
Apparently I should be looking for excessive body hair and an aversion to silver. Hugh has neither, so clearly the mythology needs updating.
The research keeps me busy but doesn't stop me thinking about him. He's there in every quiet moment, grey eyes flickering with amber and cedar scent and the memory of his voice saying "mate" like it meant something sacred.
I've been saving questions I'll probably never get to ask, filling three pages of a notebook hidden under my mattress.
Does shifting hurt? Can you control when it happens? Are you sniffing other wolf’s butts as a greeting?
What does the fated mates bond feel like from your side? How does it affect you?
Day three ends with me staring at my ceiling at midnight, absolutely not sleeping. My room has become my personal padded room and I definitely didn’t ventilate my room even once over these three days.
So I decide that fresh air is what I need most—and quietly leave the house to sneak in the garden.
When I approach the pool, Hugh is already there, in swimming trunks, white long towel on his shoulders. There are water droplets on his skin that make my brain short-circuit and his hair is wet and tossed. Absolutely unfairly attractive.
He definitely notices me approaching (at least, by scent, he should have, at least), but he doesn’t bolt anymore. Which means he chose not to disappear for once.
Progress.
"Couldn't sleep?" I ask, moving close enough to smell the chlorine on his skin.
"Something like that." His voice is rough, like he hasn't used it in days. "You should go back to bed, Claire."
"Funny, I was about to say the same thing to you. The swimming-at-midnight look is very sport romance hero, but it's pretty chilly out here.” I make a show of rubbing my shoulders and notice him side-eyeing me. ”Though I suppose werewolf healing handles that sort of thing. Add it to my list of questions you'll never answer."
His jaw tightens, but he doesn't take the bait. Just stares at my reflection in the water like looking at me directly might turn him to stone.
"Why are you avoiding me?" The question comes out more vulnerable than I intended. "And don't say you're not, because I've seen you literally leave rooms when I enter them. I'm starting to develop a complex about my personal hygiene."
"You know why."
Still not looking at me. Stoic. Well, I’m not backing up either.
"I know what you told me.” I correct him. “That our bond is dangerous, that people would see us as an abomination, that shipping me to California is the only sensible option. What I don't know is why you're pretending the pull between us is one-sided when we both know it isn't."
That makes him turn. Finally.
His eyes meet mine in the dim pool light, and I can see the exhaustion written across his features. The shadows under his eyes, the tension in his shoulders, the way he looks at me like I'm simultaneously the answer to everything and the source of all his problems.
"I'm not pretending anything. I'm trying to protect you from a situation you don't fully understand. From a world that would chew you up and spit you out without a second thought." There’s vitriol in his words that makes my stomach turn.
"Protect me by making me feel invisible? By watching me when you think I'm not looking and then bolting the second I notice?"
I step closer, and he goes still—that predator stillness I'm learning to recognize.
"You're not protecting me, Hugh. You're torturing both of us because you're too scared to admit you want this as much as I do."
"You have no idea what I want." His voice drops, dangerous.
"Then tell me,” I insist. “Stop shutting me out and actually talk to me. I want to understand your world, understand you, understand what this bond could be if you'd stop running from it for five seconds."
I close the distance between us, my hand pressing flat against his chest. His heart is racing—pounding against my palm like it's trying to escape.
"Your heart's beating so fast. For someone who claims to want distance, your body seems to disagree."
He catches my wrist, but he doesn't push me away. His fingers wrap around my pulse point, thumb pressed where my own heartbeat matches his rhythm.
I feel cradled. Safe.
"You don't understand what you're asking. If I stop holding back—if I claim you—it's permanent, Claire.” He tries to argue, but I don’t see the downside. “My wolf has already chosen. There's no taking it back, no changing your mind. You'd be tied to me, to my world, to all its dangers. Forever."
The word should terrify me. Instead, it sends heat flooding through my veins.
"Then show me what that means. Show me what forever looks like with you."
Something breaks behind his eyes. His hand releases my wrist only to cup my jaw, tilting my face up toward his. He leans in slowly, giving me every chance to pull away, and when his lips brush mine—not quite a kiss, just the ghost of one—he speaks against my mouth.
"Tell me to stop."
I don't move. Don't breathe. His thumb traces my lower lip, the touch featherlight and devastating. His forehead drops to rest against mine, and then he's pulling me flush against him, and I can feel exactly how much he wants me.
The evidence is unmistakable, pressed against my stomach, and his whole body is trembling with the effort of holding back.
"Claire." My name sounds like a prayer and a curse wrapped together. His mouth drags against mine, still not kissing me, still hovering at the edge of surrender. "Tell me to stop. Please. I need you to tell me to stop."
"No." The word comes out as a whisper, but it lands like a bomb.
For one agonizing, perfect moment, I think he's going to give in. His grip tightens on my jaw, his breath catches, his body angles toward mine like gravity itself is pulling us together. I can see the war playing out behind his eyes—duty versus desire, fear versus fate.
Then he wrenches away.
His eyes flash pure amber, his hands shaking at his sides, and the loss of his warmth feels like being plunged into ice water.
"This can't happen." The words are ragged, torn from somewhere deep. "I won't do this to you. I won't condemn you to a life of looking over your shoulder, of being hated for something you didn't choose."
"Hugh—"
But he's already moving, already retreating, already putting walls back up that I spent three days trying to crack.
"Go back to bed, Claire. Forget this happened. And stay close to home. Please."
He's gone before I can respond, disappeared into darkness like the shadows themselves swallowed him whole. I'm left standing there, my lips tingling from an almost-kiss that felt more intimate than anything I've ever experienced.
Forget this happened, he said. As if forgetting him were possible. As if I haven't been trying for so long and failing spectacularly.