Lena shut the bathroom door gently.
Then she braced her hands on the marble sink and tried to breathe.
She hadn't meant for the walls to feel like they were closing in — but they were. Every inch of her home now carried a heaviness she couldn't shrug off. Eyes lingered too long on her. Words floated close but not close enough. A human among wolves? No one said it outright, but the question curled around her like second skin.
She straightened, staring into the mirror.
She barely recognized herself.
Not because anything about her had physically changed — but because somewhere, in the place between her heartbeat and her thoughts, something had shifted.
Restlessness, like she was on the brink of something she couldn't name.
She knew who was at the center of that fault line.
She splashed water on her face and stepped out.
Ethan sat on the bed, his blazer tossed aside, elbows on his knees. The weight he carried wasn't hidden well. Not for Lena. Not anymore.
"You're avoiding me," he said softly, not looking up.
Lena froze.
"No… I've just been—" She stopped. Lied. Tried again. "Yeah. I'm… sorry."
He rubbed the back of his neck, exhaling. "Is it the pack? The whole… pressure thing? I know they're not the warmest, but—"
"It's not just them." Her voice wavered, and she swallowed it down.
He finally raised his eyes to hers. And what she saw there nearly broke her.
Worry. Exhaustion.
And worse — confusion.
"You barely talk to me, Lena. And when you do, it's… far. Like you're somewhere else the whole time."
She looked away, unable to match what she'd done to what she still wanted to feel.
"I'm trying, Ethan," she whispered.
"That's the issue, isn't it?" His tone held no venom. Only pain. "Love shouldn't need this much trying."
She felt it then — the stab of guilt, sharp and venomous. She did love Ethan. They had history, comfort, a quiet belonging that had once made her believe she was safe.
So why did she feel like she was holding sand?
"It's just been… a lot," she offered weakly.
He laughed without humor. "A lot? Or him?"
Her heart plummeted.
The name wasn't spoken. It didn't need to be.
Killian.
She shut her eyes.
"We both know what's being said," Ethan continued. "I'm not blind, Lena. I see the way some pack members look at you — like you're already someone else's problem."
"I don't care what they think," she snapped, sharper than she meant to.
"But you care what he thinks," Ethan lowballed, voice soft and wounded.
She froze.
Silence fell between them like a wall. Not cold — just immovable.
"What do you want me to say?" she breathed. "That I don't notice him? That I don't feel something strange when he's near? That I'm made of stone?"
Ethan swallowed hard.
"Yes," he whispered. "At least lie to me if you can't fix it."
The silence that followed was painful in ways neither expected.
Across the house, muted voices leaked through the walls. Low, restrained.
Lena walked to the window, arms wrapped around herself. The moon cast a glow across the forest outside, silvering the edge of the tree line.
Her chest felt cracked open.
She didn't know what she was more afraid of: the pull she couldn't explain… or the damage she was already causing.
She heard the bed creak behind her, Ethan getting up. His presence at her back was solid. Familiar. Heavy in the way comfort becomes when it starts to suffocate.
"I love you," he said quietly.
Her eyes burned.
"I know."
"And I want to marry you."
She closed her eyes.
"But I don't want to lose myself in the process."
The quiet devastation in his words shook her.
She turned, tears shimmering.
"You're not losing me—"
"I already am," he said gently.
They stared at each other for a suspended moment. The truth sat thick between them, painful and shapeless.
He stepped back first.
"Let me know when you're ready to talk. For real."
Then he left her standing there.
Alone.
Downstairs, whispering shadows grew bolder.
Some of the pack's women sat in small circles — laughing, low-voiced, eyes furtive. It wasn't hard to imagine what they were saying.
Human. Unfit. Pretender. Imposter.
Lena moved past them with practiced grace. Chin up, spine straight, even though her insides were unraveling.
She hadn't wanted this world. But she wanted Ethan. That had once been enough.
Now she wasn't so sure.
She slipped outside, needing air more than she trusted her own heartbeat.
The night was cool. The sky low and starlit.
She walked toward the treeline, stopping where the lawn surrendered to shadows.
That's when she felt it.
A presence.
Not close enough to see. But near enough to instinctively know.
Killian.
Her pulse stuttered, stung by the weight of it.
She didn't turn.
Because she wasn't ready to see what waited in his eyes.
Her voice came out low. Controlled.
"How long have you been there?"
A slow beat of silence.
"Long enough," Killian answered.
Her breath caught.
"Long enough to hear everything?"
"Long enough to know you're breaking."
She bit back the tremor in her voice.
"You don't get to say that."
He didn't move. Neither did she. The space between them crackled like something charged, dangerous — like lightning looking for ground.
"Whatever's happening here," she continued, "it needs to stop."
"Does it?" His voice was a low, frayed thread.
She forced herself to turn.
He stood half in shadow. The moon carved gold into the line of his jaw, the strands of his hair. His gaze was unguarded for once, and it undid her.
"This—whatever this is— is tearing everything apart," she said. "Ethan. The pack. Me."
He took a slow step forward. Not close — but closer.
"Then tell me to walk away," Killian said softly. "Tell me to cut the connection. To ignore the way my wolf responds to you. To act like I don't feel every time you walk into a room."
Her heart hammered.
"You don't want me to say it," she whispered.
"No," he said. "I want to see if you can."
Her breath was shallow, her fingers trembling at her sides.
She opened her mouth to speak—
But nothing came out.
Because she couldn't.
He watched the realization fall over her like night filling the sky.
Then he turned.
And left her in the dark.