Two months passed like a dream wrapped in silk.
Max recovered faster than expected. Lucien's treatments and the constant support of his mates saw to that. Within weeks, he was walking around the manor again—still sore, but stubborn as ever.
They healed together.
Meals were shared more often. Laughter became a familiar guest. Touches—once tentative—grew natural. The bond between the five of them had strengthened, thickened, humming with something real and steady. Even Lucien, ever composed, let himself relax in their company. Max made it easy for him.
But with peace came subtle shadows.
And Silas noticed every one of them.
It started small—Sam avoiding prolonged contact during sparring sessions. Then during cuddle piles, he'd inch away when someone reached for his waist or brushed too close to his side. He always had a smilealways laughed with them, always seemed present.
But he was slipping away from the bond. Quietly.
Noah noticed too—but he didn't push. Not yet.
They spent most afternoons lounging under the autumn sun in the vast gardens behind the manor. The space smelled like cedarwood and sweet tobacco. On one such day, a picnic had been set out: fresh fruits, cheese, roasted meats, wine.
Max was teasing Noah about his obsession with salted plums. Lucien sat against a tree reading, glasses perched on his nose. Oliver had dropped by with James, snatching grapes and pretending not to enjoy the attention. Silas lay back on the grass, eyes closed, pretending to nap—but he was listening. Always listening.
And Sam?
He was quiet. Sitting near Max, back straight, hands clasped around a warm mug of coffee he hadn't touched. His gaze followed the others—but it was distant.Always a little… elsewhere.
"Sam," Max called, voice light, "You okay? You haven't made fun of Noah's scarf once today. That's suspicious."
Sam blinked, startled. Then he gave a sheepish smile. "I'm just tired. Didn't sleep well."
Noah tilted his head. "Nightmares again?"
Sam looked away. "Something like that."
Silas opened his eyes then, catching the moment Sam's fingers tightened around the cup. He saw how Sam's body tensed when Max leaned his shoulder against him—how Sam forced himself not to flinch.
Later that night, after the others had retired, Silas followed Sam to the hallway just outside the bedrooms.
"Sam."
He stopped.
Silas stepped closer, voice soft. "You've been pulling away.""I'm not."
"You are."
Sam didn't turn around. "Can we not do this tonight?"
"I'm not accusing you," Silas said gently. "I just want to understand."
Finally, Sam turned—his face calm, but his eyes defensive. "You don't need to understand anything. I'm fine."
"You're not."
The moment stretched—tense, brittle.
Then Sam said, "Let it go, Silas," and turned sharply into his room, locking the door behind him.
Silas stood in the empty hallway, his gut churning with something he hadn't felt in a long time: dread.
It started with silence.
The kind of silence that sits on your chest and presses, not letting up—not even when you try to ignore it.
Silas stood outside Sam's bedroom door, hand hovering over the knob. The house was quiet. Everyone else had gone into the city—Noah and Lucien meeting with a weapons supplier, Max and James off handling shipment negotiations. Even Oliver was gone.
Sam was supposed to be sparring with one of the guards.
He wasn't.
And Silas knew he wouldn't be back for at least an hour.
His hand trembled slightly as he opened the door.
Sam's room was neat. Too neat. Like it had been arranged for display. Everything in its place: bed made, clothes folded, not a single thing out of alignment.
But there was something else—a subtle scent that didn't belong.
Not just cologne or omega suppressants. Something deeper. Faint. Hidden.
Silas moved slowly, footsteps soundless. He opened the wardrobe first—lined with black, white, and navy shirts. All crisp. All untouched for days.
The desk drawers revealed nothing unusual. Papers. Notes. A closed sketchbook.
But when he opened the small cabinet by the bed, the world shifted.
Inside were two small vials—clear glass with dark blue caps. Silas recognized the labels immediately. Hormone suppressants.
Beside them: a foil-sealed box of heat-suppressing pills. Illegal without prescription. Meant to override natural cycles.
And below it, tucked carefully beneath a silk scarf, was something even more damning.
A pack of discreet sanitary pads.Silas's breath caught in his throat.
No.
No, that wasn't possible.
He stared at the box, his fingers frozen around the edge of the drawer.
Then the door slammed open.
Sam stood in the doorway, chest heaving, eyes wide and blazing with fury.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
Then Sam's voice came out low, quiet—but sharp enough to cut steel.
"What. Are. You. Doing. In. My. Room?"
Silas turned slowly, still clutching the scarf.
"Sam…" he began, voice cracking. "I—I just—"
"You were snooping?" Sam stepped forward, face pale with shock and rage. "You went through my things?!"
"I was worried!" Silas said quickly, heart pounding. "You've been distant for weeksand I couldn't—Sam, I didn't mean to—"
"You didn't mean to?" Sam hissed. "You think that excuses it?! You violated my privacy, Silas! You spied on me!"
"I didn't know what else to do!" Silas shouted, stepping forward. "You've been hiding something—pulling away from the bond—flinching when we touch you! You think we wouldn't notice?!"
"That doesn't give you the right to treat me like a suspect in my own home!"
"I'm your mate, Sam!" Silas barked. "You're supposed to trust me!"
Sam's hands shook. He was breathing hard now, almost trembling.
"You saw something," he said softly. "Didn't you?"
Silas swallowed. "Yes."
Sam's face twisted into something like pain.
"Then you know."
"I don't know," Silas whispered. "Noteverything. But I need you to tell me, Sam. I need you to trust me with the truth."
There was silence.
Then Sam crossed the room and ripped the drawer shut, so hard the wood groaned.
"You had no right," he said again, softer this time—but even more dangerous.
And then he turned and shoved Silas out the door.
"Don't come near my room again."
He slammed it shut.
The sound echoed like a gunshot.
Down the hallway, Max, Noah, and Lucien had returned—just in time to see Silas standing there, pale and shaking, the door slammed in his face.
Max was the first to speak.
"What the hell happened?"Silas didn't answer.
He couldn't.