Chapter 2

My words hung in the air.

Ryan stared at me a moment, then the corner of his mouth twitched. A short laugh escaped him. He rose, came around the table, and slowly looked me over from head to toe the way someone might assess an object.

"Deserve?" he repeated, his tone lifting at the end, amused. "Elena, my bloodline and my rating are top-tier, even at the Center. What do you think?"

The implication was icy and brutal: I didn't.

Then why, back in the matching hall, had he pointed to me?

When he saw my expression change, he dropped the smile, though his gaze stayed high and cold. "There's no point obsessing over something like that," he said, voice flat but sharp. "Only someone with that little self-awareness would ask a question like it."

He was right. In his eyes, I was probably just a lucky idiot with no sense of her place.

But he had chosen me.

Ryan didn't let the silence last. He turned toward the kitchen, straight-backed as ever, his voice returning to its usual commanding note. "Enough. Stop spacing out. I'll make something to eat."

In the open kitchen, he tied on an apron with practiced ease. He could cook, and he treated it as his domain. He handled all three meals. I only cooked when I was being "punished" by him - like during this cold war, with the mushy overboiled pasta I'd ruined. He would come out with a cold face, remake the meal, set it in front of me, and then eat my disastrous plate without a word. Only after finishing it would he deliver his verdict:

"Your cooking never fails to redefine the lower limit of human survival skills."

The humiliation of those moments made me want to disappear. Yet in some twisted way, I had once believed that maybe this was his awkward version of caring.

This cold war seemed to end just like that, under the vague umbrella of his one-sided "pardon."

Life went back to normal. He was still arrogant. His words were still edged. The only difference was that he began dropping frequent reminders, pretending they were casual.

"Next Thursday is my comp day."

"Time flies. It's that season again."

I understood.

His birthday was coming.

Last year, I'd saved up to buy him a limited-edition watch. All he'd said was, "The strap isn't the material I like," and he never wore it again.

This year, I decided to ask directly.

"Ryan, is there anything specific you want for your birthday? Or somewhere you want to go?"

The cloth in his hand paused midway across a glass. He glanced at me, something unreadable in his eyes.

"You figure it out." He looked away again. "If I say it, what's the surprise?"

I thought about it, and it seemed to make sense. Maybe last year had just been my bad taste.

On the night of his birthday, I got home early.

On the Black Forest cake, I'd piped a clean-lined profile of a silver wolf in icing. The gift was a leather bracelet I'd spent a long time choosing, with his initials and a tiny wolf-head emblem engraved inside.

He had cooked dinner himself. It was more elaborate than usual. In the candlelight, he closed his eyes to make a wish, and his features softened in a way I rarely saw. For a moment, I almost mistook it for warmth.

He blew out the candles. I nudged the cake closer and pointed at the silver wolf, a little hopeful.

"Look."

Ryan's gaze landed on the icing design and stilled for a few seconds. Then he looked away.

"...Childish," he said evenly. "Something you'd use to amuse a kid."

It was like being pricked by a fine needle. I kept my expression steady with effort and handed him the gift.

"Happy birthday."

He took it. He opened it faster than usual. When he lifted the dark brown bracelet from the box, his thumb brushed over the leather, and his eyes flicked to the engraving on the inside.

That faint ease he'd had because it was his birthday drained from his face. His lips pressed into a line.

"You don't like it?" My voice came out dry.

"No." He answered too quickly. He set the bracelet back in the box and shut it. "It's fine."

But his face clearly said otherwise.

That familiar helplessness washed over me again. I was always guessing. Always trying to stay inside invisible lines. For nearly a year, I'd kept telling myself this was just how werewolves were - proud, difficult, impossible to read.

Fatigue and a cold ache spread through me. Looking at the closed box, I said softly, "Next time... if there's something you really want, just tell me. That way I won't pick wrong again."

"Tell you?" Ryan's head snapped up. The displeasure he'd been holding down burst from his gold eyes. "Elena, you are my legal mate. We've been together this long and you still don't understand me? You still can't guess what I like? Do I have to say everything out loud? Then what kind of surprise is that? That's not a surprise. That's asking for it. That's lazy."

His voice rose, sharp enough to hurt.

Before I could react, he grabbed the velvet box and flung his arm hard.

Smack.

The box arced through the air, slammed into the cold decorative fireplace in the corner, and rolled to the floor.

Ryan didn't look at it. He didn't look at my face going white, either. He shoved back his chair so hard it scraped across the floor, then turned and stormed upstairs, his footsteps pounding until they disappeared.

The dining room fell dead silent.

The silver wolf on the cake crouched there quietly.

By the fireplace, the gift box lay half-open and crooked.

I stood there, looking from the staircase to the abandoned present.

This time, what surged up inside me wasn't panic or distress.

It was a cold calm, almost numb, slowly settling to the bottom.

I didn't go after him upstairs.