Episode 17
1136 Words
Caleb's POV
I pushed the door open and walked inside, but my mind was still stuck at last night's banquet.
Clara standing there. Too close to Xavier.
I told myself it was nothing. No big deal. But the image kept replaying in my head no matter how hard I tried to shake it off. My mother wanted her to take part in a ritual for Silvercrest's sake. She might get hurt, but it was just a ritual. That was all.
But Alpha King Xavier stepped in. He protected her. Protected my Luna.
He used his alpha aura to question me, as if he had responsibility for my wife's safety. As if he had authority and the right in my territory.
Then he got injured, and instead of letting others handle it, he ordered everyone to leave, keeping Clara behind to bandage him alone. And the way he leaned slightly toward her, nspeaking into her ear, as if there was some private space between them that I wasn't allowed into. I hated that part the most.
I didn't even know why it bothered me this much. She wasn't as beautiful as she had been years ago. I was certain of that. Compared to Frost, Clara was rigid, sharp-edged, not as attractive physically, and worst of all, every time I was around her, I couldn't stop feeling it.
Inferior. Like she looked down on me.
That was why I didn't love her. I only needed her. That was the truth. After all, I had just come back from Frost.
But the moment I imagined her leaving me, I felt like I couldn't breathe. Clara was my wife. My Luna. No matter what I did outside this room, she was supposed to belong here to me! Another man touching her, talking to her, looking at her like that…that crossed the line.
I slammed the door shut.
Clara was in the living room, holding a package.She was staring at it so intently that when the door slammed, she only glanced up at me briefly before looking back down.
She didn't hurry over to take my coat. Not ask where I'd been. She didn't even pretend to care. I knew she hadn't done those things in a long time—but that was because she couldn't see back then. Now her sight had returned, and she still didn't.
Her calm expression made me uneasy.
"What did you buy?" I asked, loosening my tie as I walked toward her.
She glanced at me, wrinkled her nose in clear annoyance, and took a step back. "Just a package."
That was it. No explanation. No attempt to hide it to surprise me later. No excited chatter like a teenager trying to pull me into a conversation. She simply set the box aside and stood up, ready to go to the bedroom. She was avoiding me.
The anger in my chest flared almost instantly.
I deliberately took my time changing my shoes, making as much noise as possible, kicking both shoes into the middle of the living room—the thing she hated most. But she didn't react. She just picked up her phone and walked toward the bedroom door.
My chest tightened. "Clara, did you eat breakfast?" I asked.
"Yes," she replied, still distant.
That was it? No "Do you want your eggs runny or fully cooked today"? Maybe she'd already prepared something. I frowned and walked into the kitchen, but there was nothing. No soft-boiled eggs I liked. No oatmeal. Nothing at all.
"Where's my breakfast?" I asked as I turned back, pressing a hand to my stomach. "My stomach hurts."
Normally, that would work. Before, she would stop immediately, hurry to the fridge to check what ingredients were left, and ask me what I wanted to eat. Even when she was exhausted. Even when we had fought, she always handled it. To her, I mattered more than anything.
But she just stopped, grabbed something from the cabinet beside her, and tossed it at me.
A bag of instant food. "Eat it," she said coldly.
I looked down at it. Cheap. Probably expired. Definitely not something she would've given me before.
"Are you serious?" I said. "You think this is enough for me? It's cold outside today and my stomach hurts. I should be eating something warm—"
She didn't turn around. "Then don't eat. Or go find a pack maid."
I stood there, staring at the bedroom door after it closed, irritation flooding my chest. This wasn't how things were supposed to be. She used to notice everything—my moods, my habits, what I liked and didn't like. She remembered that I hated cheese-flavored food. She remembered all of it.
This was too strange. Everything had changed in an instant. Like… like she knew something.
The thought made my stomach churn, but I forced it down immediately. No it's impossible. She had been blind back then. She couldn't have seen Frost and me. She saw nothing.
And even if she did know. She loved me that much, would she really choose to leave me? No. She would just tolerate, and beg me to stay.
Women sometimes do this. Pretending to ignore their husbands. Acting cold to get attention. My friends used to joke about it all the time. Clara was probably doing the same thing.
She was trying to distance herself first, then give me the gift she'd prepared. The package—yes, that box had to be the surprise she'd gotten for me. I opened it almost eagerly, expecting to see the gift Clara had chosen. Maybe if I saw it, I could believe she still loved me.
But inside the box was a handkerchief.
A handkerchief I had seen before.
Not the exact same one—but the same style. The same brand. The same clean, expensive look. I remembered it clearly, how her fingers had rubbed against it inside her pocket. The day she came home injured, carrying the scent of another he-wolf.
My fingers tightened around the fabric. So this was for that he-wolf too. Maybe as a gift.
A sharp, burning emotion churned in my chest. I didn't even know what I was feeling anymore. Anger. Suspicion. And something dangerously close to panic—but I refused to name it.
She bought something for another man. She betrayed me? How could she?!
I pulled out my phone without hesitation and called my beta.
"Watch Clara," I said the moment he answered. "Every day. Where she goes. Who she meets. I want to know everything."
He hesitated. "Alpha—"
"Just do it!" I roared, hung up and stood there, staring at the handkerchief clenched in my hand. Now, I need to ask for an answer by myself.
I pushed open the door of our bedroom.
- Writer
