92. Athena
Hugo’s eyes held mine, their stormy depths an open wound of memories he barely kept stitched together.
I could see through his gaze and demeanor at that moment that the weight of his past clung to him, carved into every shadow and line on his face.
His jaw clenched—a twitch, subtle yet fierce, betrayed the war raging inside him. He tried to mask it with a calm so brittle it seemed ready to shatter under the slightest pressure.
When he finally spoke, his voice was low, a fragile thread of control teetering on the edge.
“No, she wasn’t my fated mate,” he admitted, the words scraping against his throat, raw and unhealed.
I could hear it.
He paused, the silence so dense that it pressed against my chest.
“She was my chosen mate after so many failed years of searching for m
