North’s POV

I woke up to silence.

And for one long moment, I believed it was early morning in my tiny apartment above the café. That I’d overslept. That my phone alarm had somehow failed and Mrs. Han would knock in any second to offer too-strong tea and yell at me for forgetting my umbrella again.

I opened my eyes.

And the illusion shattered.

This wasn’t my apartment.

This wasn't my family mansion.

This wasn’t anywhere I knew.

The bed was too big. The sheets were too soft. The air smelled clean and cold and rich, touched with something wild that crawled into my bones and whispered mine.

My stomach twisted.

I sat up too quickly and the world spun.

Stone walls. Velvet drapes. A fireplace still glowing with dying embers. A balcony beyond tall windows. Everything beautiful. Luxurious. Heavy with presence.

And that scent.

My scent.

And his.

I could feel him before I saw him.

Eyes on me.

I turned slowly.

Johan stood against the wall, arms crossed, face unreadable. Watching.

Like he’d been standing there a long time.

Waiting for me to wake.

Waiting for something else, too — something he hadn’t dared ask for yet.

The bond pulsed faintly beneath my skin.

Not violent. Not overwhelming like before.

Just there.

Real.

Uninvited.

Unwanted.

I swallowed hard.

This wasn’t supposed to be my life.

I’d known I was different. Of course I had. My family had been gentle but clear about it. They didn’t cage me — they protected me. Sent me away to live among humans, to build a life that was mine. And I had. I loved that quiet life. The university. The barista job. The bookstore down the road. The tiny old woman who sold handmade scarves and gave me free ones when the winters got bad.

I’d dreamt of love — yes — but normal love. Falling in with someone slowly. Dates, shared coffee, walks through parks where no one could smell your instincts.

Not this.

Not soul-deep bonds and storms in the veins and an alpha who looked at me like the world began and ended in my scent.

Not him.

“North,” Johan said softly.

I didn’t answer.

He took a step forward.

I moved back.

His jaw tensed, just slightly. His voice dropped. “Please—”

I didn’t let him finish.

I slipped off the bed, my legs shaky but working. I didn’t look at him.

Didn’t breathe too deep.

Didn’t let myself feel anything because if I did, I’d unravel.

He moved again—one step too close—and something in me snapped.

“No.”

He froze.

The word came out thin and raw and shaking. I didn’t recognize my own voice.

“I don’t want this,” I said.

His expression didn’t change. But something in his stance softened.

“I didn’t ask for it either,” he said quietly.

My throat ached.

I wanted to scream. Cry. Leave.

Instead, I did the only thing that made sense in the moment.

I turned and ran.

There was a door.

Bathroom.

I slammed it shut, locked it, leaned my back against it, and finally let myself breathe.

The tile was cold through my clothes. My heart hammered in my ears. My pulse screamed against my skin.

What was I doing?

What was he doing?

Why was I here?

I buried my face in my hands and exhaled hard through my nose, trying not to cry. I didn’t cry. I hated drama. Hated mess. I’d built a life that was small and quiet and ordinary — on purpose.

I didn’t want to be rare. I didn’t want to be special.

I just wanted peace.

I wanted the life I’d watched humans live. The love stories I saw in movie theaters. The bakery girl who got engaged last fall and cried when her fiancé proposed with a ring hidden in a cupcake.

That’s what I wanted.

That’s all I ever wanted.

Not this storm of instincts and tangled soulmarks and powerful alphas who looked at me like I was the answer to a question I never asked.

I slid down to the floor, breathing shallowly.

Outside the door, silence.

No knocking.

No demands.

But I could feel him. On the other side. Unmoving.

Waiting.

I hated how my wolf wanted to go to him.

I hated how part of me — the part that remembered the way his arms had held me when I was falling apart — wanted to open the door.

But I wouldn’t.

I couldn’t.

Because if I let myself want that…

I might not remember how to stop.