Chapter 2

Alfred dragged me into a private lounge and slammed the door.

The music outside muffled instantly, and the air inside turned heavy—thick with instinct.

Alfred shoved me against the wall.

His mouth crashed onto mine like punishment. Teeth caught my lip, not enough to draw blood, but enough to sting. Enough to remind me he could.

“What the hell does that mean?” he growled against my mouth. “You two look great together?”

I swallowed, tasting him—whiskey and that familiar cedar-dark scent that used to mean home and safety.

“It means exactly what I said,” I answered, voice steady despite the tremor in my chest. “You two look perfectly matched.”

He froze, staring at me like I’d spoken a language he didn’t understand.

“You used to hate even hearing her name,” he said slowly. “What’s wrong with you tonight?”

Nothing.

And that was the scariest part.

Because the truth was simple: I didn’t care the way I used to.

I met Alfred when we were children—two families in the same neighborhood, two kids always orbiting each other.

The summer after graduation, our parents took a trip to a hot springs resort. They played cards inside while we splashed each other in the private pool.

He kissed me first.

Afterward, breathing hard, he pulled back and said, “Let’s not tell our parents yet. If you ever stop wanting me… it’ll be awkward for everyone.”

So we hid it. We dated in shadows. Alfred’s parents liked me. Mine trusted him.But they don't really know "us".

Then he got into Cascade University’s elite program in Seattle—Dr. Hart’s lab, grants, publications, prestige.

—where wolves's brilliance was the only hierarchy.

I stayed back in a smaller college town and worked my way up.

But long-distance taught us a pattern: I always traveled to him.He “couldn’t.”

The first Valentine’s Day I visited as a surprise, Wanda met me at the lab door.

She looked me up and down like she was evaluating a product.

And she said:

“I’ll pass your gift along,” She stopped me, chin lifted like she was doing me a favor, glancing at my chocolates. “Alfred doesn’t even like sweets.”

Then Alfred appeared and smiled—warm, familiar.

“Les,” he said. “What are you doing here?”

Wanda’s eyes flicked between us. Her smile snapped into place.

“Oh,” she said, tone became bright. “Girlfriend?”

She added me on social media that same night and complained, laughing, “Girls keep showing up like this. I didn’t realize guarding him was such a job. I only agreed because I’m nice.”

She asked which school I went to.

When I told her, the disdain flashed in her eyes so quickly most people would’ve missed it.

Alfred didn’t.

He just pretended it wasn’t there.

When I told him I didn’t like her, he smiled and said, “That’s just Wanda. She’s blunt. No bad intentions.”

The way he said her name—warm, amused—left something sharp lodged in my throat.

A fishbone you couldn’t swallow and couldn’t pull out.