Chapter 107: Is It Coming From Him?
Morning light spills through the glass wall, spreading across the polished marble in slow, golden rivers. The glass itself is still streaked with tears—rain from the night before, now mingled with the heavy dew that clings to everything, refusing to let go.
Outside, the world is soft and blurred, waking slowly, reluctantly, as if it too has been caught in a dream it doesn’t want to leave.
I stir beneath the warmth of the covers, my body still half-drowned in sleep, my face pressing deeper into the pillow as if I could burrow into the comfort and never leave. The sunlight finds my skin anyway—warm, patient, insistent—and a smile touches my lips without my permission.
It’s not a conscious thing.
It just happens.
A soft curve of the mouth, unguarded, unthinking—the kind of smile that belongs to a version of myself I don’t always recognize.
My hand drifts across the sheets, searching for him beside me.
The space is empty.
Cold.
The pillow beside me still carries the shape he left behind, the faint impression of his head pressed into the fabric.
But the warmth is gone.
Gone long enough for the bed to forget he was ever there.
My eyes open slowly.
I blink once. Twice. The room comes into focus piece by piece—the curve of the ceiling with its soft golden lights, the faint indentation in the pillow beside me where his head rested.
Where is he?
My fingers trace the edge of the pillow.
The memory of last night drifts back like smoke—soft, unhurried, lingering at the edges of my mind.
Dinner.
His quiet stubbornness.
The small battle of wills when he asked to sleep in my room, that familiar determination shining in his eyes.
I refused at first—just to tease him, just to see that flicker of disappointment cross his face.
And then that look.
That small, wounded, impossibly endearing look that always undoes me. The one that makes me forget why I said no in the first place.
That sad little puppy look he wore until I surrendered.
And then we lay there.
Just the two of us.
No words. No distance.
Just the steady weight of his presence beside me, his breathing slow and even, the warmth of his body close enough to feel.
We stared at each other in the dark, our eyes slowly adjusting to the dim light, saying everything without saying anything at all.
And then sleep swallowed us both—quiet and complete, like sinking beneath still water.
I sit up slowly.
The sheets shift with a soft whisper, pooling around my waist. My hair is a mess—tangled from sleep, falling across my forehead in careless strands. My eyes are still heavy, still carrying the weight of dreams.
Where did he go so early?
I close my eyes. Let my breathing settle. Let the silence of the house wrap around me.
And then—
There it is again.
A scent.
Faint, but unmistakable.
Not sweet—not exactly—but close. Subtle, like something half-remembered. Like a dream lingering just beyond reach.
It stirs something deep in my chest. Something I can’t name.
I’ve smelled it before.
The morning after my rut. The scent that lingered on my skin when I woke. The scent I couldn’t explain.
My eyes snap open.
I move before my mind catches up. My feet find the floor. Cool air brushes against my skin as I rise from the bed. I inhale again. The scent is stronger now.
Yes.
It’s coming from outside the room, drifting through the hallway like a trail waiting to be followed.
I walk.
Slowly. Quietly.
The marble is cool beneath my feet, each step swallowed by the silence of the house. The scent grows stronger as I move through the hallway, winding through the morning light like an invisible thread.
By the time I reach the living room, it fills the air around me.
I step inside.
And there he is.
Silas stands by the glass wall, a cup of coffee cradled between his hands, his gaze fixed on the garden beyond.
Is it coming from him?
The thought arrives before anything else.
The morning light spills over him in soft gold, turning the edges of his silhouette hazy and unreal. His hair is still tousled from sleep, falling across his forehead in careless waves. The oversized nightshirt hangs loose on his frame, one button left undone, revealing the pale curve of his collarbone.
For a moment, I forget about the scent. I just look at him.
Still. Quiet. Lost in whatever thoughts hold him captive.
And then—
It’s gone.
I blink.
Where did it go?
It was so strong a moment ago, pressing against my senses, demanding my attention.
Now there’s nothing.
I inhale deeply again, searching for it.
Nothing.
Only the faint trace of my own moonflower pheromones and the bitter warmth of fresh coffee lingering in the air.
Silas remains by the glass wall, unaware of the confusion unraveling inside my head. His fingers rise to touch the cold glass. Beyond it, white roses sway beneath the weight of dew, their petals trembling in the morning breeze.
I watch him for another moment.
Then I start toward him.
My hand finds his waist, settling there as though it belongs. He flinches—a small, instinctive reaction—and a faint shiver passes through him.
My chin comes to rest on his shoulder, my lips near his ear, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from his skin.
"Why didn’t you wake me?"
Before he can turn, my other hand rises. I slide my fingers over his, pressing them lightly against the cold glass, caging him between my body and the morning light.
Through the reflection, I watch his face. His eyes meet mine in the glass.
A small smile touches his lips.
Soft. Sleepy.
His gaze isn’t bright with its usual quiet attentiveness. It’s gentler than that, still hazy from sleep, as though part of him hasn’t fully left his dreams behind.
I brush my nose against his neck. The touch is barely there—a whisper of skin against skin, just enough to feel the faint shiver that runs through him.
I inhale.
Nothing.
Just the clean scent of warm skin.
I press a kiss to the curve of his neck, letting my lips linger, feeling the steady pulse beneath.
"Did someone come home?"
He shakes his head. A small movement. Quiet. Certain.
No.
I smile against his skin. Trace a line of kisses up to his cheek, feeling the warmth of him, the softness of him, the way he yields beneath my touch.
"You look tired." My voice is low, barely more than a murmur. "Let’s go back to bed."
He nods. A small, easy gesture.
I tighten my grip on his waist and bury my face deeper against his neck.
The scent is gone now. Completely gone. Like it was never there at all.
Yet I can’t shake the feeling it left behind. A question settles in the back of my mind. Quiet. Persistent.
Where the hell did that come from?
🌸 —Bonus Scene— 🌸
The hotel VIP room is silent.
The air feels heavy, saturated with something unseen.
Oleander pheromones drift through the room like golden threads—dense, luminous, suffocating. They curl around the furniture, cling to the velvet curtains, settle into the carpets like a second skin. The light catches them, making them shimmer as though the air itself has become something alive.
Silas sits on the couch.
One arm rests along the backrest, his posture composed despite the tension hidden beneath it. His eyes are closed, his breathing slow and measured.
Nick stands before him, a protective mask strapped tightly over his face.
Even through the filtration, his body remains tense, his movements careful and deliberate. The pheromones are suffocating. Even with the mask, even with distance, they press against his skin like a weight he cannot shake.
A heavy briefcase rests on the table beside them.
Nick adjusts his gloves before reaching for it. His fingers are steady. Practiced.
The locks click open.
Inside, nestled in cushioned darkness, rests a bottle of purple liquid. It glows beneath the golden light, faintly luminous, almost alive.
Nick takes a syringe and draws the liquid into it, watching the purple glow slide through the glass.
Then he walks to Silas.
"Boss."
Silas’s eyes open slowly.
The gold in them burns.
Not warm.
Not soft.
Something else.
Something that makes Nick’s breath catch despite himself.
"Boss..." Nick keeps his voice steady. "This is the third injection this week, but your rut still feels close. I don’t think staying here is wise."
Silence.
"What if the blockers stop working?" Nick swallows. "What if your rut starts unexpectedly?"
Another silence.
"We should return to X Country. Just for a week."
Silas’s hand rises. A subtle gesture. His fingers curl lightly, asking for something.
Nick blinks. Then he understands.
He places the syringe in Silas’s palm.
Silas takes it. His movements are calm, unhurried. He lifts the syringe to his neck, presses the needle against his skin, and injects the liquid in one smooth motion.
The purple glow disappears beneath pale skin.
His eyes close again. When he speaks, his voice is low. A whisper. A confession.
"I don’t want to leave my Alpha."
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