CHAPTER 16: THE HOUSE GUEST
776 Words
Andre's pov
The immense wave of frustration that rolled off Zakk and Zane was so strong it felt like a physical heat demanding I break cover. They had returned expecting immediate surrender, and instead, they were stopped by the one force they couldn't bypass: politeness.
As the twins rushed toward the back of the house to see Henry, I backed slowly into my room, my heart hammering against my ribs. I knew the pipe wasn't the real problem. The problem was the uninvited company.
I waited five agonizing minutes before I dared to creep back out. I found Henry, Sarah, and the twins in the living room. Henry was no longer pale; he was beaming.
"Andre, dear, come down!" Sarah called, relieved. "The boys are back! And look who came with Henry from the airport—it’s Aunt Carol!"
My blood ran cold. Aunt Carol. Henry's older sister. A whirlwind of sharp observations and even sharper opinions who loved nothing more than monitoring the emotional temperature of any household she visited.
Aunt Carol, a woman in her late sixties with impeccably styled silver hair and eyes that missed nothing, smiled widely. "Hello, darling! I told Henry you'd be looking thin. All these changes are stressful! I flew in to provide a little stability and keep the household running smoothly for a few days."
A few days. The estimate felt like an eternity.
I was trapped. Not only was the Mate Bond screaming for fulfillment, but now the entire family dynamic was under the scrutiny of Henry's most watchful relative.
The next seventy-two hours were defined by proximity without access.
The twins, masters of control and camouflage, immediately resumed their roles as polite, distant step-brothers. But the act was a brittle shield, hiding a desperate, powerful need that pulsed beneath their skin.
At dinner, Zakk sat across from me, his eyes never leaving Aunt Carol as she dissected the local economy. But every time Carol laughed, Zakk would subtly shift in his chair, and the smallest tremor of the Mate Bond would shoot through the floor to my feet, a silent reminder of his demand. It was a language only the three of us understood—a shared, secret tension that was driving us all insane.
Zane was worse, precisely because he was so controlled. He focused on serving Aunt Carol, asking about her flight, and maintaining continuous, bland conversation. Yet, when he poured me a glass of water, his fingers would deliberately brush the edge of my glass, holding the brief contact for a millisecond too long. The fleeting touch was like a shot of adrenaline, spiking my hunger only to plunge me back into agonizing withdrawal.
I couldn't sleep. I knew they were suffering the same acute insomnia. I would lie in bed, listening to the muffled sounds of the house. I knew they were in their rooms, restless and pacing, the smell of cedar trapped and contained by their desperate attempts at control.
One night, around three a.m., I couldn't bear the emptiness anymore. I crept out of my room, walking down the hall, ostensibly heading to the kitchen. I passed Aunt Carol's guest room. The door was closed, but I could hear her faint, even breathing.
I stopped outside Zane's door. The Mate Bond was intense here, a thick wave of heat pouring through the wood. He was awake. He knew I was there.
I raised my hand, intending to simply tap once, a signal of my surrender.
The door didn't open. Instead, I heard a low, primal sound from within—a harsh, stifled growl. It wasn't directed at me; it was directed at the situation, at the barrier that kept him contained. The sound was so raw and close to the surface that it terrified and excited me in equal measure.
I knew if I knocked, he would open the door, and the consequences would be immediate and irreversible. The secret would be broken, and Aunt Carol would hear.
I stood there, trembling, my wolf screaming for the door to open, but the sound of the growl was enough. It told me everything: I am here. I am suffering. And I am waiting.
I retreated, shaking, back to my room.
The Mate Bond was no longer a slow burn; it was a slow suffocation, prolonged by the presence of a polite, watchful house guest. We were trapped in a cage of manners, and every second felt like a deliberate act of torture designed to make the final break utterly desperate.
- Writer
