Chapter 11: "Kael's Night"
KAEL'S POV
The house was clean.
I had cleaned it myself. Scrubbed floors that didn't need scrubbing. Washed windows that were already clear. Arranged flowers—white lilies, her favorite—in vases throughout the rooms. Three weeks of this. Three weeks of waiting, of preparing, of making everything perfect for her return.
She would return. I knew she would. She always did.
I stood in the bedroom. Our bedroom. The bed was made with military corners. The sheets were changed daily, kept fresh, kept ready. Her closet was half-empty where she had taken clothes, but I had left her dresses untouched. The silver gown she wore to pack events. The blue one for casual dinners. The white—
I closed the closet door. I didn't look at the empty space where her wedding dress had hung. The one she had torn. The one she had left in a heap on the floor while I stood in the doorway, watching her walk away.
She had been angry. That was all. Angry, like she had been angry before. Like the ninety-nine times before. She would calm down. She would remember. She would come home.
She always came home.
I checked my phone. Again. The screen was bright in the darkening room. No messages. No calls. The last text I had sent—Come home. Please.—showed as delivered. Not read. Just delivered.
She was still angry. That was all. She was seeing how long I would wait. Testing me. Testing us.
I would wait forever. She knew that. I knew that. This was simply a longer test than the others.
I set the phone down. Picked it up again. Checked the signal. Full bars. Checked the volume. Loud. Checked the battery. Charged.
Everything was ready. Everything was perfect. She only had to call.
The doorbell rang.
I moved through the house quickly, hope sharp in my chest. She had come. She had finally come. I would apologize properly this time. I would explain. I would make her understand that Seraphine had been in crisis, that I had no choice, that duty—
I opened the door.
Seraphine stood there. Red hair. Green eyes. The dress she wore was white. Not wedding white. Summer white. But white. She had never worn white around me before.
"Kael." Her voice was soft. Broken. "I had to see you. I had to know you're okay."
I looked at her. Really looked. The tears on her cheeks. The way they sat there, perfect, waiting to be noticed. The way her lip trembled, controlled, precise. The way she held herself, fragile, calculated.
Something shifted. Like a lens clicking into focus. I had seen this before. Ninety-nine times. The tears. The trembling. The crisis that pulled me away from Elara.
But I had never seen it from my doorway. I had never seen it while waiting for someone else.
"You're wearing white," I said.
She touched the dress. "I didn't have anything else clean. I'm sorry. Is it wrong?"
I didn't answer. I was looking at her eyes. Green. Dry at the corners despite the tears on her cheeks. The tears that didn't fall. The tears that stayed where they were, visible, useful.
"How long were you on the roof?" I asked.
The question surprised her. I saw it. A flicker. A calculation.
"What?"
"The wedding day. You said you would jump. How long were you on the roof before you called me?"
She hesitated. "I don't remember. I was in crisis. I was—"
"Were you alone?"
"Kael, why are you asking this? I'm here because I'm worried about you. Everyone's talking. Elara married a rogue. A criminal. She abandoned you, abandoned her pack, abandoned—"
"Were you alone on the roof?"
She stopped. The tears didn't move. Her lip stopped trembling. She looked at me, and for a moment I saw something else behind the mask. Something hard. Assessing. Angry.
"I was alone," she said. Carefully. "I was alone and I was going to die and you saved me. Like you always save me."
I had saved her. Ninety-nine times. I had left Elara standing in restaurants, in theaters, in our bed, to save Seraphine from dying. From pills. From heights. From blades.
I looked at her now. At the white dress. At the dry corners of her eyes. At the way she stood in my doorway, between me and the street, between me and any view of approaching cars.
"Elara hasn't called," I said.
Seraphine's face changed. Relief? Victory? "She's cruel. To make you wait. To punish you for being kind."
"She's not cruel." The words came out sharp. I didn't recognize my own voice. "She's never been cruel. She's been patient. Ninety-nine times patient. And I broke her."
"She broke herself. She was always weak. Always—"
"Go home, Seraphine."
She stared at me. The tears finally fell. Real or not, they fell. "What?"
"Go home. Don't come here again."
"Kael, you're upset. You don't mean—"
"I see you now." The words were quiet. I didn't shout. Alphas don't need to shout. "I see the tears that don't fall until you need them. I see the crises that happen when I'm with her. I see the white dress you're wearing to my doorway while I wait for my wife."
"Your wife left you."
"Yes." I stepped back. Started to close the door. "And you helped. Ninety-nine times, you helped. I let you. I chose you. I thought that was honor. I thought that was duty."
"Kael—"
"It's not." I closed the door. Locked it. "It's not honor. It never was."
I stood in the hallway. Listening to her breathe on the other side of the wood. Waiting for her to knock, to cry, to threaten.
She didn't. She left. I heard her footsteps fade. Heard her car start. Heard her drive away.
I didn't move for a long time.
---
I cleaned the kitchen. It was already clean. I cleaned it again. The sink, the counters, the floor where Elara had stood the last morning, packing her bags, not crying, not looking at me.
I had asked her to stay. I had said please. I had stood in that doorway and watched her walk to Mira's car and I had believed—truly believed—that she would turn around.
She didn't.
Three weeks. Twenty-one days. Five hundred and four hours. I had counted them all.
My phone buzzed.
I grabbed it so fast I nearly dropped it. A text. From—no. Not Elara. From my father. Asking about pack business. About territory lines. About everything that wasn't her.
I didn't respond. I set the phone down. Picked it up. Checked again.
Nothing.
I opened my call log. Scrolled to her number. Pressed it. Listened to it ring. Once. Twice. Three times. Voicemail.
This is Elara. I can't take your call right now.
Her voice. Professional. Distant. The voice she used for strangers, not for me. Not anymore.
Leave a message and I'll get back to you.
I didn't leave a message. I never left messages anymore. What would I say? I'm sorry? I had said that ninety-nine times. Come back? She knew I wanted that. I love you? She had stopped believing it. I couldn't blame her.
I ended the call. Stared at the screen. The background was still a photo of us. Last summer. Her laughing at something I said. Her head back. Her eyes bright. The way she looked before I made her small.
I didn't change it. I couldn't. That was still her. That was still us. That was still possible, if I just waited long enough, if I just believed hard enough, if I just—
The phone rang.
I answered without looking. "Elara?"
Silence. Then: "Kael. It's Marcus. From Red Moon."
Not her. Not her. I closed my eyes. "Alpha Marcus. What do you want?"
"Information. Your wife—" He stopped. Corrected himself. "Elara Vance. She has married the Rogue King. Cassian Vane. You know this?"
I knew. I had known for two weeks. Someone had seen them at a neutral chapel. Someone had talked. The news had spread through the packs like fire through dry grass.
"Yes," I said.
"She is alive. Healthy. Reportedly..." He paused. "Reportedly happy."
Happy. The word was a blade. Happy. Without me. Despite me. Because she had finally stopped waiting for me to choose her.
"Why are you telling me this?" I asked.
"Because the political situation is shifting. Because your father is making moves. Because—" Another pause. "Because I knew her mother. And I think you should know: Elara is not coming back. Not this time. Not to you."
I ended the call. Didn't say goodbye. Set the phone down on the kitchen counter. Stared at it.
Marcus was wrong. He had to be wrong. Elara loved me. Fated mates. Biology. Five years. She had waited five years. She wouldn't stop now. She couldn't stop now.
She just needed time. She just needed to see that I understood. That I was sorry. That I would change.
I would change. I was changing. I had seen Seraphine clearly tonight. I had closed the door. I had chosen, finally chosen, and I had chosen Elara.
She would know. Somehow, she would know. She would feel it. The bond between us—fated, real, unbreakable—she would feel me choosing her.
I walked to the bedroom. Stood in the doorway. The bed was perfect. The room was perfect. Everything was ready.
I checked my phone one more time. No messages. No calls.
It didn't matter. She was thinking. She was planning. She was preparing her own apology, her own return, her own forgiveness.
She always came back.
She would come back.
I lay down on the bed. On my side. Not hers. I didn't touch her pillows. I didn't deserve to yet. But soon. When she returned. When she forgave me. When we began again.
I closed my eyes. Saw her face. The way she looked at me in the church. The fury. The hurt. The finality.
No. Not final. Not final. Nothing was final. Love was patient. Love was kind. Love waited.
I would wait.
She would come back.
She always came back.