Dalton's POV
She has a fiancé.
A fucking fiancé.
I stare at her, my body rigid, my hands curled into fists at my sides. The words are still ringing in my ears, sinking in like a slow, poisoned blade.
I was supposed to marry him.
What the fuck?
I won't lie—I already liked her. Maybe too much. Right from the day I found her in the woods, broken and helpless but still full of fire. I liked the way she looked at me, unafraid. The way she challenged me, even when she had no strength left to stand.
And last night?
Last night had set something in me ablaze. She had wanted me. I felt it. Every touch, every kiss—it wasn't hesitation, it wasn't regret. She had chosen me in that moment.
But now she's looking at me like I was a mistake. Like last night never should've happened.
And I hate it.
I exhale sharply, forcing myself to stay still, to breathe through the frustration twisting in my chest. I shouldn't feel like this. I shouldn't care this much.
But I do.
The worst part? The thing that's really fucking me up? It's not just the fact that she has someone waiting for her. It's what he is to her.
In the human world, a fiancé is like a mate, right? A bond. A promise.
That realization hits me like a hammer to the chest.
She's already spoken for.
Claimed.
And it makes me want to fucking snarl.
I rake a hand through my hair, pacing a little, trying to shake the feeling crawling under my skin. She's not mine. I have no right to feel this way. No right to want to keep her here, to tell her she doesn't belong with him.
But the thought of her leaving—of going back to him, back to a life where last night meant nothing—makes something inside me snap.
She doesn't belong to me.
But fuck, I don't want her belonging to someone else.
It makes my stomach twist in a way I don't like. I shouldn't care. I don't care. That's what I tell myself, but it's a fucking lie. My fists clench at my sides as I look at her, lying there on the bed, her face twisted in thought. She hasn't even looked at me since she said it, like she already regrets telling me. Like she's trying to figure out how to undo whatever the hell happened between us last night.
Too late.
I can still taste her. Still feel the way she trembled under my hands, the way she clung to me, her soft little gasps, the heat of her skin against mine—Fuck.
And now she wants to go back to him?
The thought makes something dark coil in my chest.
"Dalton?" Her voice pulls me out of my head. I lift my gaze to meet hers. She's watching me carefully, like she's afraid of my reaction. "Are you okay?"
I almost laugh. Am I okay?
No, I'm fucking not.
But I can't tell her that. Can't tell her that every bone in my body is screaming at me to make her stay. That the idea of her walking out of this cabin, out of my life, and back to some other man makes me want to put my fist through the goddamn wall.
Instead, I take a slow breath, force my shoulders to relax, and shake my head. "Yeah. I'm fine. Just… not feeling too good."
Her brows furrow, like she doesn't quite believe me. Smart girl.
"Sorry," she murmurs. "I just… how long do you think my leg will take to heal? I mean, before I can finally go home?"
Home.
The word feels like a slap.
I feel my jaw tighten. My fingers twitch with the urge to grab something—her—and stop this conversation before it goes any further.
I knew she'd have to leave eventually. I'm not an idiot. She doesn't belong here. This isn't her world. But hearing her say it—hearing her so eager to get away from me—it makes something in my chest burn.
I want to tell her never. That she's stuck here, that her injury is worse than it looks, that she'll need months to recover. I want to tell her she has no choice but to stay, to keep sitting by the fire with me at night, laughing, talking, letting me learn every little thing about her.
But I can't do that.
I clench my fists, forcing my voice to stay even. "I don't know."
It's a lie. I do know. Another week, maybe two, and she'll be able to walk just fine. But I don't want to give her an answer. I don't want her counting down the days until she can run back to him.
She sighs, rubbing her temples. "Okay."
That's it? Just okay?
She's already back to thinking about leaving. Already planning her escape. She's probably picturing him—her fiancé—waiting for her, wondering where she is, missing her.
And I hate it.
I fucking hate it.
I turn away before she can see the frustration on my face. I need to get out of this cabin before I do something stupid, like punch a hole in the wall or grab her and tell her she's mine.
But she's not.
She has a mate.
And I'm just… nothing.