He Chased Me to Spite His Enemy. So I Left Him at the Altar Chapter 03

He Chased Me to Spite His Enemy. So I Left Him at the Altar Chapter 03

Fun.

He thought it was fun.

That week he was gone, I lost five pounds. I couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep. My eyes were so swollen from crying I looked like I’d been punched. I thought he was in danger—was Silvermoon coming after him? Werewolf feuds don’t need a reason. There’d been talk of Borderlands wolves expanding their territory; Shadowpine supply convoys had been hit twice. I’d pictured the worst: finding his body in some godforsaken ditch.

And he was here. Drinking. Laughing. Talking about how fun it would be to leave me at the altar.

I opened my eyes slowly.

Moonlight fell on the gangplank. My shadow stretched out long and thin, like a narrow river flowing from my feet into the dark water of the dock. Something was floating on the water—a broken branch, pushed by the waves toward the shore.

I felt like that branch.

Snapped off a tree, thrown into the ocean, thinking you’d found a new home. But you’re just getting pushed around by the waves, no idea where you’ll wash up.

The conversation inside kept going. Someone was giving Dorian Thorne advice: “Best way to get back at a woman? Let her think she’s the happiest she’s ever been—then drop her off a cliff. That’s way more fun.”

“Yeah, exactly. So Thorne, you should go back. Go with her to pick out the dress. Go with her to send the invitations. Act like nothing’s wrong—*then* leave her hanging at the wedding. I guarantee Evelyn Blackwood will lose her damn mind.”

Nothing but disgusting laughter.

That kind of laughter I’d heard a hundred times at werewolf gatherings—alcohol, moonlight, primal instincts all tangled together, that deep-in-your-throat laugh with a raw, predatory edge to it. I used to think it was rugged and masculine. Now I just knew it was cruel.

I held back the nausea and waited for Dorian Thorne to answer.

I kept hoping he’d say something like “Come on, quit messing around.”

Or “She’s my fiancée. I won’t let you talk about her like that.”

Even silence would’ve been something. Silence meant hesitation. Hesitation meant there was still something there.

But after a long silence, I heard Dorian Thorne’s low voice agree: “Yeah, that’s a good idea. Let’s do that.”

Let’s do that.

Five words.

Light as the smoke ring he’d blown, vanishing on the wind.

But those five words landed on my heart like a mountain.

I forced a bitter smile.

The tears still came. They spilled over my eyelids and ran down my cheeks. I didn’t wipe them away. I let them fall. The dock was dark. No one was watching me.

The salty, bitter liquid reached the corner of my mouth. I tasted my tears—just as salty as a human’s, just as bitter. Tears are the one thing werewolves and humans have in common.

I stood there silently, like a tree that had been ripped out of the ground by its roots.

Dorian Thorne, you want to play games?

Well, here’s something you probably don’t know about me. I grew up in the human world. I learned a lot of things that pureblood wolves never do.

Like how to hold back. Like how to pretend. Like how to smile when it hurts the most.

I can’t wait to see the look on your face on our wedding day—when you realize your bride is gone.

I turned and walked down the gangplank. My footsteps were as light as a cat’s. Even a werewolf’s sharp hearing couldn’t pick up a heartbeat that had already stopped.

Well. The heartbeat was still there. I just couldn’t feel it anymore. Or maybe I’d decided not to.

On my way back, I passed the spot where that woman had been standing. A trace of body heat still lingered on the railing, along with an unfamiliar perfume—sweet, artificial, nothing like the woodsy, herbal smells of werewolf territory. Human perfume. Dorian Thorne had grown up on the edge of human settlements. He would’ve known that smell well.

Let it go. Not yet.

Back in the car, I closed the door and pressed my face into the steering wheel. LA’s night wind slipped through the cracked window and touched the back of my neck, cold. The car still smelled like Dorian Thorne—cedar and gunpowder. I used to love that smell. I’d bury my face in the crook of his neck and breathe it in like an idiot.

Now it just made me sick.

I sat in the dark for a long time. So long that the moon moved from one side of the water to the other. So long that my tears dried and came back, dried and came back, until my eyes were so raw they couldn’t squeeze out another drop.

Then I turned the key in the ignition.

I’m not crying anymore.

Dorian Thorne, you want to play? Fine. Let’s play.

But at the end of this game, I’m not going to be the one crying.

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