Chapter 1

I used to think love meant endurance. For the past year, I’d been living under my werewolf mate Ryan’s ruthless standards—his cold accusations, his indifference, and the endless “silent wars” that always ended with me lowering my head.

Until two a.m. one night, when I came home worn down from a project and carrying a bag of ribs. Ryan didn’t even look at me. He just sniffed the paper bag, then tossed it back onto the table. “Cheap junk.”

In that moment, the frozen exhaustion finally cracked.

I calmly slid the **Inter-Species Mate Bond Dissolution Consent Form** across to him. He let out a cold laugh and slammed the door on his way out. “Don’t regret it.”

He thought I’d cave like I always did—chasing after him, crying, compromising. He waited for me to come crawling back, waited to grant me that familiar look of “forgiveness” like it was something I had to earn.

But a week later, in the middle of the night, he finally couldn’t stand it and called.

And what he heard on the other end was:

“She’s asleep. Whatever it is, call back tomorrow.”

The voice in the receiver—belonging to that crown prince lion—made Ryan’s blood freeze on the spot.

……

……

When I pushed open the front door, the living room was wrapped in darkness, lit only by the faint glow of dying embers in the fireplace.

Ryan's voice came from the shadows. "Look at the time, Elena."

I switched on the hall light. He was sitting in the armchair, golden eyes sweeping over me with nothing in them but annoyance at being disturbed.

"That worthless job of yours," he said, exiting his game and tossing the console onto the table, "does it really have to take up all your time? Where's my late-night meal? Don't tell me you didn't go to Howling Kitchen."

The drive from the west side of the city to that place in the east district took at least an hour.

It was 1:47 in the morning.

I was too exhausted to speak. I set the paper bag beside the table and turned toward the bedroom.

"Wait." I heard him rustling through the bag. "This isn't from there. The sauce is wrong. Smells cheap too." The bag hit the table again.

The project had imploded today. The whole team had been stuck in emergency overtime until now. My temples throbbed. My eyes felt dry and raw. Right before I shut down my terminal, I'd gotten a text from him:

Ribs. Howling Kitchen's.

I had sent five messages explaining it was too late and suggesting we switch to another place. He hadn't replied. I thought he would understand.

Clearly, he wouldn't.

My throat tightened. With my back to him, I said tiredly, "If you don't want it, throw it away."

Without waiting for his reaction, I walked into the bedroom. When I came out after my shower, my pillow was sitting alone on the bed. His expensive glacier-wolf fur pillow was gone. The guest room door was shut tight.

This was his standard opening move in a cold war. Move out. Ignore me. Keep it up until I apologized, coaxed him, and met some new demand of his as a "step toward reconciliation."

Over the past year, I'd gone through this routine countless times.

But tonight, staring at that closed door, all I felt was a hollow numbness. I turned off the light, lay down, and let sleep swallow me whole.

We stayed locked in that standoff for nearly a week.

To him, I was air. The dining table was long; he sat at the far end, cutting into the steak I'd cooked. When I brought up the homeowners insurance, he put in his earbuds and watched something on his tablet as if he hadn't heard a word.

That deliberate indifference wore down every emotion I had left, until only a dull ache remained.

I thought back to a year ago, to our first meeting at the Supernatural Species Matching Center. He had been tall and striking, his short silver-gray hair immaculate, his dark green uniform setting off his straight-backed frame. His golden animal eyes had been distant and proud.

My consultant had lowered her voice and said, "Mr. Ryan is a werewolf with A-rank potential and a pure bloodline. Individuals like him... are naturally picky. But he's very satisfied with your compatibility results and agreed to the bond. He likes you. That's rare."

Back then, I thought I'd been handed something precious.

But precious things can be cold and sharp.

When I broke a cup, he frowned and said, "Are all humans this clumsy?" Yet he cleaned it up himself. I used to think that meant he was softhearted beneath the sharp tongue.

Later, I realized he might simply have hated mess.

He called the movies I picked "boring," the music I loved "too noisy," the food I made "barely edible."

Even when I fainted at work, all he did when he picked me up was knit his brow and sneer, "What exactly do you keep in that head of yours? You can't even take care of yourself. Pathetic."

Moment after moment like that piled up.

Late at night, one question would always rise to the surface:

Did he really like me?

Was this what love looked like for beastfolk?

Maybe, I told myself. Maybe that was just how they were.

Until his first rut.

That was when their need for a mate's comfort was strongest. I had prepared myself for it. I'd even felt a little anticipation. But when his breathing turned ragged and his gold eyes flushed red, he shoved me away.

"Don't come near me!"

He locked himself in the guest room and forced himself through it on suppressants, never letting me get so much as a step close.

I sat with my back against the cold wall, listening to the muffled growls and the sound of things breaking behind the door as I slowly sank to the floor. Confusion drowned me.

If he rejected me even then, what did "like" even mean?

What was I, then, as his mate?

I thought this cold war would last longer.

So on the evening of the seventh day, when I was standing in the kitchen zoning out and he actually came over first, speaking in a deliberately flat but awkward tone, I was caught off guard.

"Hey." Leaning against the doorframe, he looked out the window. "How much longer are you going to sulk?"

I didn't turn around. I kept stirring the soup in the pot.

"You were the one who brushed me off first," he said, a note of accusation creeping into his voice. "What you brought home wasn't even what I asked for. If anyone has a right to be angry, it's me."

Before, I would have taken the out he was offering and followed his lead, keeping the surface peace intact.

But this time, something made of exhaustion and a strange kind of clarity took hold of me. I turned off the stove and faced him. He seemed to pause, startled by how calm I was.

"I'm not angry, Ryan." My own voice sounded unfamiliar to me. "I just have a question I've wanted to ask for a long time."

One brow arched.

I drew a breath. The doubts that had circled my heart for so long finally came out in a single, clear line.

"In your eyes... do I really deserve to be your mate?"