ZAIN
I slammed the door shut behind me, fists clenched, breath ragged.
My back hit the hallway wall.
And I sank.
My legs folded under me like I'd been gutted, and I pressed the heels of my palms to my eyes, trying to block out the memory of her—flushed, trembling, begging me to mark her.
And I walked away.
Every instinct in me—every fucking cell—screamed that I should've claimed her right then and there. That I should've buried my teeth in her neck and made her mine, consequences be damned.
But my logic had won.
Barely.
And now she hated me for it.
Good.
She should.
Because I hated me too.
The hallway was dark, quiet—thick with the scent of blood and wolves and the echo of things unsaid. My body still ached with need, my mark burning like it had been seared into me with fire. I could feel her everywhere—on my skin, in my lungs, under my tongue.
I slammed my fist into the wall once. Twice.
Stone cracked beneath my knuckles, but I didn't feel the pain.
