Wolvenmark - The Forbidden Mate

Chapter 12 : Beneath the Surface

Chapter 12 : Beneath the Surface

Ruby’s POV

I pulled out my lunchbox from my bag and headed to the dining area, the buzz of the office fading as I slipped into the relative quiet of the corner table I’d claimed for myself. The usual chatter of clinking forks and low conversations surrounded me, but today it all felt distant, like background noise to a film I wasn’t part of.

I opened my food, poked at it, took a bite—chewed, swallowed, repeated. But no matter how much I tried to ground myself in the simple act of eating, one thought kept circling in my head like a restless bird refusing to land: Al was nowhere to be seen.

It was strange. By now, he would’ve already found a way to interrupt me—sometimes barging into my morning with some half-serious demand, other times just to tease me with that smug grin that drove me crazy. Whether to annoy or amuse himself, he never failed to make his presence known. But today? Nothing. No calls. No intercom buzz. Not even a glimpse of him through the glass walls of his office.

I stabbed a piece of food a little too hard, my fork scraping against the container.

Did something happen? He didn’t have any scheduled meetings today—his calendar was clear. So where was he?

I wasn’t going to lie to myself—I was waiting. My ears were tuned like antennas to catch even the faintest sound of his voice, half-expecting him to appear at any second with some ridiculous excuse just to pull me out of my routine. But the silence stretched on, heavy and unsettling.

And the worst part? I realized I wasn’t just expecting him. I was wanting him. Wanting him to be there. That thought made my chest tighten, a shiver running down my spine as if I’d admitted something I shouldn’t.

Shaking my head, I tried to chase it away, finishing my food quickly and forcing myself into my usual routine—brushing my teeth, washing my face, even rearranging the pens on my desk just to keep busy. But no matter what I did, the gnawing unease didn’t fade. Something about today was… off.

Before I could second-guess myself, I grabbed my ID and left my office, the elevator humming as it carried me down to the HR department. If anyone knew something, it would be them.

“Have you seen Mr. Silvermoon this morning?” I asked Ms. Lallary, who was sipping her coffee like she had all the time in the world. She’d been there since my first day, sharp-eyed and approachable in her own way.

She looked at me over her mug. “No, I haven’t noticed him.” She tilted her head, curiosity sparking. “Why? He’s not in his office?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted, my fingers tapping restlessly against my arm. “I haven’t heard from him all morning.”

Her brows lifted slightly. “That’s weird. You’re the closest person to him. If anyone should know where he is, it’s you.”

“Yeah, well, surprisingly, he hasn’t called me,” I muttered, the words tasting strange even as I said them. Normally, Al never gave me a moment’s peace.

The knowing little smile she gave me made my stomach flip uncomfortably. “Maybe he just needed a break,” she said, almost sing-song, as if she was teasing me with something unsaid.

“Maybe,” I echoed, though the word felt empty. I waved her off with a goodbye, but the tension in my chest only tightened as I returned upstairs.

Al didn’t just “take breaks.” He didn’t skip work without telling me. His absence pressed against me, heavy and unnatural, until I couldn’t take it anymore. Grabbing a stack of files for cover, I strode toward the elevator and hit the button for the top floor.

When I reached his office, I knocked—once, twice, three times. Silence. The door was locked, as if it hadn’t been touched all day.

“Uhmm… sir?”

I turned to see one of the cleaning ladies nearby, holding her cart.

“Yes?”

“No one’s inside,” she said carefully. “I just finished cleaning, and Mr. Silvermoon wasn’t there.”

A hollow feeling dropped into my stomach. “You mean… he didn’t come in at all this morning?”

“I don’t know for sure,” she said, shifting under my stare. “But his office was empty when I arrived, which is unusual. Normally, he’s there whenever I come to clean.”

“Really?” My grip on the files tightened. “Do you know why?”

She blinked, then let out a nervous laugh. “Sir, I’m just the cleaning lady… how would I know these things?”

Right. Fair point. I exhaled slowly, forcing a polite nod. “Thanks anyway.”

Pulling out my phone, I typed quickly:

Good day, Al. I noticed you haven’t come to work this morning. May I know your whereabouts? Is there something I can help you with? Or any instructions for me?

I hit send. My heart skipped when my phone vibrated almost instantly with a reply.

Hey, I’m sorry I didn’t inform you. I’ve been out today handling some personal matters. Thank you for checking up on me. I just need you to take care of things at work if anything comes up, okay? Aside from that, there’s nothing to worry about.

I reread the message once. Twice. Again.

Personal matters?

He said there was nothing to worry about. But somehow, that only made the unease claw deeper.

Sliding my phone back into my pocket, I leaned against the wall and let out a slow breath. There was nothing more I could do. Nothing I could ask.

But the truth pressed itself against me anyway, unspoken but undeniable.

I didn’t just miss his presence.

I wanted to see him.

And that, more than his absence, unsettled me the most.

The day finally bled out, neon gutters and office glare shrinking behind me as I trudged home, but nothing about the walk felt ordinary. The city buzzed in the background—distant horns, someone laughing into a phone, the steady churn of late buses—but there was a hollow under it all, like a drumbeat missing its center. I should have been relieved to shut my laptop and leave the day behind. Instead, the world felt oddly muted, as if someone had turned down the color.

Maybe it was ridiculous. Maybe I’d let Al’s absence warp the rest of my day into gray. Since when did one person shape the edges of my hours? Yet every step home pulled me back to him, to the space he usually filled with irritation, orders, or one of those rare, crooked smiles that made the world tilt just a little sideways. I tried to tell myself that was silly, but the wanting stayed.

Halfway down the block my skin prickled—like the static before a storm. I slowed, instincts flaring: a whisper at the edge of awareness that something wasn’t right. The air seemed thicker, the lamplight closer, as if the world had drawn in a breath and held it. My hand twitched toward my pocket without thinking, empty of the little comforts I’d normally reach for.

I turned, slow and careful, eyes sweeping the dim street behind me. A woman in a red coat passed under the flickering lamp, a delivery truck idled at the curb, the smeared reflection of a neon sign slid across wet asphalt. Nothing. Somebody else’s shadow. Ordinary. But the feeling didn’t leave. It pressed at my spine like a remembered wound.

Maybe I was tired. Maybe I was imagining threats where none existed. I forced my pace faster, keys a hard weight in my fist, throat tight. The lock clicked under my hand and the door swung open like an apology. I stepped in and locked it behind me, the bolt sliding home with a satisfying, domestic thunk. Light and noise folded around me, the small comforts of home reasserting themselves. The tension in my shoulders eased by a fraction.

Then Grandma’s voice cut the quiet.

“Do you think they’re here?”

It should’ve been impossible to startle me—she’d warned me of storm fronts and thieves before I could tie my shoes—but it did. I turned to find her propped on the couch, a shawl around her shoulders even in summer, eyes like flint despite the softness of age. She didn’t have to lift a finger; she simply knew. Her hearing had always been cruelly accurate, her instincts keener than most men twice her age.

“Who?” I asked, keeping my voice steady because panic tastes bad and looks worse.

Her gaze didn’t flinch. “They,” she said, precise, as if naming would summon them out of the dark. “Do you smell it?”

I had to swallow. I hadn’t told her about the prickling on the street. I hadn’t told anyone. But the old ways travel on a different wavelength—bones and breath and blood remember things your mouth forgets. A cold corner of my mind remembered how she’d pressed my palm as a child and hummed, a ritual that meant: pay attention.

I crouched beside her, letting my shoulder brush hers. “They can’t be here,” I said because saying it felt safer than admitting otherwise. I smoothed her hair with a careful hand. “Really. It’s nothing. Just—go rest for a bit. I’ll check around.”

Her lips thinned. “Be careful,” she said, the phrase not a suggestion but a map.

I moved through the small apartment on silent feet, habits folding into place—the ritual of checking windows, pressing my palm to the glass at the balcony like testing a forehead for fever, peering into the corridor through the peephole until the hallway looked back at me with uninterested eyes. Everything was ordinary: shoes neatly lined, a note stuck to the fridge, the kettle on the counter. Yet my senses, coiled and animal, refused to accept normal as answer.

I double-checked the locks, drew the curtains, and left the lights low—not because darkness hid danger but because bright lights feel like a challenge. Each small action felt like an anchor I was dropping into a surging river. If something was coming, maybe I could feel its shadow long before it arrived. If nothing came, then I’d have been vigilant for nothing—small comfort, but a comfort nonetheless.

I sat at the small kitchen table and let the quiet stretch, hands clasped, listening to the house breathe. The city hummed outside like a distant engine. My grandmother’s breathing evened out on the couch behind me, slight and steady. I wanted to call someone—Shadow, Stone—someone blunt and anchored and certain. But calling would mean admitting I couldn’t handle this on my own. Pride and duty made my thumbs hover over the screen until the glow died.

So I waited. Alert in the dark, senses trained on the door, on the corridor, on the soft sigh that might mean wind or might mean footsteps. Tonight, whatever it was, the presence had brushed past. The knowing sat under my ribs like coals, warm and worrying. I told myself to sleep, to let the mundane things rule the hours, but the old parts of me, the parts my grandmother fed with folkways and whispered warnings, would not let go.

Something was coming. I could feel it down to the bones. And I had the terrible, reluctant certainty I wasn’t ready.