Chapter 330
For three days, I became part of the furniture in the guest room — a ghost haunting a palace of glass and steel, wrapping myself in the duvet as if it were a shield against the world Dallas ruled.
The silence was my only companion. I barely ate, barely slept. I simply existed, letting the numbness of the past weeks settle over me like a heavy fog. Dallas gave me space, respecting my need for distance, though I could feel his presence just beyond the door — a constant, anxious warmth bleeding through the walls.
On the morning of the third day, something shifted.
I woke to an empty room, pale dawn light filtering through the curtains. My throat was dry, parched from days of neglect. I needed water. Pulling on a robe, I padded softly out of the guest room and down the hallway toward the kitchen.
The penthouse was quiet, but as I approached the living area, a low, urgent voice stopped me in my tracks. Dallas. He was on the balcony, the glass door slightly ajar, his back to me — speaking on his phone, his tone grim and clipped. The voice of the Alpha King delivering orders, not the man who held me at night.
I should have retreated. Every instinct told me to respect his privacy. But something in his voice, a raw edge of frustration, rooted me to the spot. I stayed in the shadows, barely breathing, as his words drifted inside.
“The Council has ruled on the Silver Moon survivor,” he said into the phone. A pause. “Yes, Duncan, I read the report. They’re seeking the final sentence for Rowan.”
My heart stopped.
Rowan. My childhood friend. The boy who used to sneak me extra bread when my parents weren’t looking. I had thought he was dead — lost in the massacre that claimed my Pack.
“Public stripping of his wolf, then execution,” Dallas continued, his voice heavy with disgust. “They want to make an example of him.”
The world tilted on its axis.
Stripping of his wolf. It was a fate worse than death — a spiritual mutilation reserved for the vilest traitors.
I pressed a hand to my mouth to stifle the gasp that threatened to escape. Rowan was alive. And they were going to kill him.
Dallas said a few more words I couldn’t hear over the roaring in my ears, then ended the call. I heard the slide of the glass door and his footsteps retreating toward the opposite wing of the penthouse.
I stumbled back to the guest room, my legs threatening to give way beneath me. I collapsed onto the bed, staring at the ceiling, the weight of this new truth crushing my chest. Rowan was alive. Rowan was going to die.
I wanted to run to Dallas. I wanted to ask him everything — how, when, why. But the distance between us felt insurmountable. He was out there, carrying this burden alone, and I was here, locked in my own grief, unable to bridge the gap. I had to wait. I had to find the words.