Chapter 16

Dahlia.

The sun was outrageously enthusiastic today, its golden rays blazing as if it had just landed a major Hollywood role. My body felt oddly content, like I'd just won a marathon I didn't sign up for. But why? My vision decided to go all *rom-com montage* on me, blurring dramatically before snapping back to reality.

The ceiling above me was a stranger—ash-white and thoroughly unimpressive. No chandelier, no ceiling fan, just a light fixture that looked like it belonged in a sitcom about quirky interior designers.

Warmth radiated beside me—a solid, breathing heat source. I turned, cautiously, like a detective uncovering a scandal, and found my husband. He lay there, blissfully unconscious, before his brow furrowed and his eyes flew open, wide with the universal look of *What just happened?*

Then it hit me like a plot twist. Beneath the sheets, I was naked. And so was he.

He shot up like a startled meerkat, and I followed his movement with my eyes, scanning the room like a crime scene investigator. Evidence was everywhere—clothes strewn like post-apocalyptic debris. My bra was on the floor, my dress clung to the door like it had given up on life, one shoe was beside the bed while its partner had gone AWOL, and my thong hung off a chair with a level of casualness that felt borderline smug.

No. No, no, no. Did we really—?

I clutched the sheets like a Victorian heroine discovering scandal, my heart pounding in a way that wasn't entirely unpleasant. My memory was a blank canvas, the last brushstroke being me climbing into the car and ditching my heels. After that? Radio silence.

Gingerly, I slipped a hand beneath the sheets, conducting the most awkward self-investigation known to mankind. My breath hitched. Wet. Sticky. Sensitive. Oh no. My body was singing the song of "something definitely happened," while my brain refused to provide the lyrics.

And that's when I realized: my life had officially become a bad rom-com, complete with missing shoes and questionable choices.

I pointed a trembling finger toward my lower half, as I locked eyes with his equally dumbfounded expression. "What... what did you do to me last night? And where even are we?" He demanded, his words wobbling between accusation and panic.

Did he slip something in the champagne I drunk. I grabbed my phone typed and showed him the screen," You did this to me didn't you?"

He looked just as bewildered, sitting up with a groan. "Me? Why are you asking me? I'm the victim here!"

I typed again," I am just a weakling little human how could I possibly trap a big bad wolf to my bed."

His face darkened, his confusion giving way to frustration. "Don't give me that look. I'm just as lost as you are! I wasn't drunk—I remember everything until we got here, and then… nothing. You must've planned this!" he shot back, glaring as if I'd masterminded some wild scheme.

"Planned this? Are you insane?" I typed, shaking my head so hard it was a wonder my brain stayed in place. "I only had wine! And wine doesn't erase my memory… especially not something like this." He said.

His confidence wavered as I began to piece it all together, my mental checklist growing increasingly damning: my overly sensitive nipples, the dull ache in unmentionable places, and the unmistakable smear of my lipstick on his lips.

Oh no.

We'd done it.

We had s3x.

My cheeks ignited as the horrifying, mind-blowing, completely mortifying truth sank in. Despite my blank memory, vivid—and *way* too detailed—images began popping into my head like a bad cinematic flashback. I slapped my hands over my face, sinking back against the mattress as I curled into myself like a shrimp of shame.

Meanwhile, he sat there looking utterly shell-shocked, running a hand through his hair as if trying to comb out the chaos of the situation. "Well," he muttered, breaking the awkward silence, "at least one of us had the courtesy to put the thong on the chair."

This was going to be a *long* morning.

***************

Rath.

I woke up with a headache, but it vanished as quickly as it came, leaving me with a more perplexing discomfort—something unshakably strange. The events of last night were a blur, fragmented and elusive. The last thing I remembered was starting the car. Yet here I was, in my suite, with no recollection of how I got here.

I didn't drink heavily at the party, just a glass of champagne like everyone else. So how could I have lost an entire night? My body gave me clues my mind couldn't: my cock felt painfully sensitive, like I'd drained every ounce of myself in a frenzy. The unmistakable sensation of release lingered, telling me we'd had s3x.

But here's the thing—no matter how intoxicated I might get, I never forget sex. It's impossible. So what the hell happened?

More concerning was her. If we had sex, how was she still intact? My strength, even in restraint, could destroy her fragile human body. One thrust alone would snap her spine unless she'd taken aloe syrup to bolster her durability. My wolf stirred within me, sniffing for any trace of the syrup in her scent—nothing.

My phone vibrated, snapping me out of my thoughts. Billie. Thank goodness. Maybe she could fill in the blanks.

"Good morning, Sir. I trust you had a pleasant night," she greeted cheerfully. I got up and moved to the living room, trying to compose myself.

"Billie," I began, "did I say anything strange last night? Anything out of the ordinary?"

"You called to let me know you wouldn't be coming home, along with your wife. You told me not to wait up. Before I could ask why, you hung up," she replied.

"Did I sound... off? High, drunk?"

"No, sir. You sounded as you usually do. Is everything alright?"

I hesitated, glancing at my reflection in the mirror. Red lipstick—the same shade Dahlia had been wearing—was smeared across my lips. A damning confirmation.

"I woke up this morning... empty, naked, with clothes scattered all over the room. I had s3x, Billie, but I can't remember a single detail. The signs are there—clear as day—but the memory is gone."

Her tone shifted as she added, "Well, that's not the only interesting thing from last night. Alpha Theron was assassinated."

The words hit like a punch to the gut. My fingers rubbed at my temple as I pinched the bridge of my nose. This was bad—very, very bad. Theron's death was bound to send shockwaves through the pack. Chaos was inevitable if we didn't find the culprit fast.

"I'll meet you at the house," I said, cutting the call. My mind was already spinning with the implications. Theron's murder couldn't have come at a worse time.

Returning to the bedroom, I found the little human still in bed. She sat up, clutching the sheets to her chest, though her modesty was redundant—I knew her body better than she realized. Every curve, every mark on her skin was etched into my memory. I'd studied her that first night, ensuring she was as pure as they'd claimed.

Yet now, there were no marks, no bruises to suggest I'd been careless. It didn't make sense.

She slid out of bed as I grabbed my clothes, dressing in silence. She fumbled with the zipper of her dress, her small fingers struggling to reach. Without a word, I stepped behind her and zipped it up.

She froze momentarily, her petite frame dwarfed by mine. At 5'1, she was tiny compared to my human height of 6'3—not to mention what I could grow to if I shifted. For a brief moment, the contrast between us struck me again. But this wasn't the time to dwell on her fragility.

My finger grazed her warm flesh, and a sudden heat surged through me, igniting something primal. Her soul carried an intoxicating scent, fresh and inviting, like oven-baked bread straight from the fire. The thought of consuming every ounce of it sent a shiver of anticipation down my spine.

I let my hand drift to her hair, soft as silk and coal-black, slipping effortlessly through my fingers. For a moment, I lingered, savoring the sensation before forcing myself to step back. There were more pressing matters to attend to. The human girl could wait—for now.

But then I caught sight of her cheeks, flushed a deep red. She was blushing. Blushing.

The realization caught me off guard. She wasn't trembling in fear or recoiling from my presence. Instead, she stood there, shy and sensitive, radiating an innocence that was as disarming as it was endearing.

Adorable. Cute, even.

I allowed myself a brief moment of admiration pulling away. There'd be time to unravel this strange little human later.