Rejected Mate, Hidden Heir

Chapter 6: What the Note Said

Mira’s POV

“Put it down, Mira.”

The voice was Dorian’s, but it rumbled in his chest like thunder. When I turned, I saw him standing in the doorway, the lamp behind him, his eyes glowing gold.

Not a flicker this time. A full, bright wolf-gold.

His wolf was back. And it was angry.

“You wrote this,” I said, holding up the cream paper. My hand shook so badly that the page rattled.

“I did.”

“Keep her where I can see her.”

“Yes.”

“That’s all you have to say?”

The gold in his eyes faded, and his human side returned. He stepped into the lamplight. His shirt was wrinkled, and he looked as though he’d been standing in the dark for hours.

“No,” he said. “That isn’t all.”

“Then tell me. All of it.”

“The day after Rowan’s funeral, I got his phone records.” He spoke slowly, as though every word cost him something. “His last call was to a number in Port Marlen. Nine fourteen. Forty-six minutes before the crash. I traced the number. It was yours.”

“So you thought—”

“I thought I didn’t know.” His voice broke. “I thought you were with him. I thought he was driving to see you when he died. I thought you might know something.” He swallowed. “And I thought that if I could just see your face, I’d know.”

“You thought I was Rowan’s lover.” I said it flatly, wanting to hear how it sounded.

“For about four seconds.” He gave a small, broken laugh. “Then you drove through my gate with your chin up and your hair in that braid, and I saw you at the top of the stairs. I smelled you beneath all that soap. And I knew I was wrong.”

“You knew, and you still let me stand there while you called me Ms. Calloway.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I can’t explain it here.”

“Here?”

His eyes flicked toward a corner of the ceiling, quick and brief. “Please. Not in this room.”

I followed his gaze. A tiny black dome sat in the corner, no bigger than a coin. Another was mounted above the door. Forty cameras, I thought. Forty ears.

He hadn’t been hiding anything from me tonight. He’d been hiding it from them.

“I’m done with rooms. I’m done with you.” I dropped the paper onto the desk. “I’m going to pack.”

“Mira.”

I stopped at the door.

“Whatever you think,” he said quietly, “you can still take the check. I won’t stop you. I’ll even drive you to the gate myself.”

“I don’t want Silas’s money.”

“Then take mine.”

“You don’t get to buy your way out of this, Dorian.”

I closed the door before he could answer.

I leaned against the hallway wall, my heart pounding. Somewhere behind the door, something heavy hit the floor softly, like a man sitting down.

I packed at three in the morning with the lights off.

I folded a sweater. Then another. I told myself I was being sensible. A man who writes find out why about a woman has told you everything you need to know.

But my hands kept stopping.

I smelled you. And I knew I was wrong.

I sat on the bed with a sweater in my lap. I thought about the soup. The ginger tea that appeared every morning without a word. His hands shaking on the study floor while I counted breaths with him. The way he’d looked at me afterward, as though I were the first solid thing he’d touched in a year.

Then I remembered Choosing Night and the three hundred people who had watched me walk away.

I picked up the sweater again.

My phone rang at six.

Aunt Dot.

She never called before nine. I answered before the first ring had even finished.

“What is it?”

“It’s Finn.” Her voice was thin and trembling. “He woke up blue, Mira. His lips, his fingers. They’ve moved him to intensive care. The doctor says you need to come now.”

I dropped the sweater. “I’m coming.”

I grabbed my keys and ran.

I barely remembered crossing the room. All I could recall was the cold brass of the front door handle and the thought that if my son died while I was folding sweaters, I would never forgive myself.

Dorian stood at the foot of the stairs.

His shirt was unbuttoned, his hair a mess, his eyes red. He hadn’t slept either.

“I heard,” he said. “Sable told me. Something about a hospital.”

“Move.”

“I’m driving.”

“No. You haven’t left this house in eighteen months.”

“I know exactly how long.” He crossed the hall in four long strides and took the keys from my hand. “And you’re shaking too hard to hold the wheel. Get in the car.”

I should have argued. I didn’t have time.

He was right about the shaking. I hated that he was right.

He took the driver’s seat. When the iron gates swung open in front of us, Dorian made a sound in his throat I had never heard from a man before.

His hands tightened around the steering wheel. His breathing became fast and shallow.

“Dorian. Look at the road.”

“I can’t—”

“Look at the road and breathe with me.” I kept my voice low and steady, the way I did for my son. “In. Hold it. Out.”

He tried, but his breath broke. He tried again.

“Good,” I whispered. “Again.”

By the third mile, his shoulders had relaxed. By the tenth, his eyes were fixed on the road, and he was pressing the gas as though he meant to outrun the sunrise.

We passed the sign for Alder Crossing. A woman sweeping her porch looked up at the black car and froze, her broom suspended in midair. Then she reached for her phone. By noon, the whole valley would know the Alpha had left his walls.

Farther along, a green sign pointed left.

GRAY FALLS ROAD.

Dorian’s knuckles went white on the wheel. He didn’t slow down or look toward it. I watched a muscle jump in his jaw until the sign disappeared behind us and the road straightened again.

He asked me nothing. I told him nothing.

Halfway there, one of his hands left the wheel and found mine on the seat between us. He held on.

St. Brigid’s was gray in the early morning light. We ran through the lobby. I couldn’t remember the elevator ride.

At the revolving doors, Dorian stopped. The people, the noise, the harsh white lights—it was too much. His chest rose and fell too quickly.

“Go,” he said. “I’m right behind you.”

He was.

The nurse at the intensive care desk looked up. “Ms. Calloway. He’s awake. He’s been asking for you.” She glanced at the tall man beside me, then returned her attention to the screen. “Room two-fourteen.”

Dr. Shah met us in the corridor, her glasses pushed up into her silver-streaked hair.

“His oxygen levels dropped overnight, but he’s stable now,” she said quickly. “He’s a fighter.”

Her gaze shifted to Dorian, and something crossed her face, quick and cautious, like someone who had noticed a stain.

I pushed the door open.

Finn lay in the large bed with a mask over his face. Wires stretched across his small chest. Aunt Dot sat beside him, her gray braid falling over her shoulder, her eyes red.

“Mama,” Finn said, lifting his head. His curls stuck up on one side.

I crossed the room in two steps and kissed his forehead.

“I’m here. I’m here, baby.”

He turned his head toward the door.

His eyes settled on the tall man standing there. Big brown eyes, with a ring of gold around the center. The same gold I’d seen in the study at midnight.

“Hi,” Finn said in his small, rough voice. “Are you Mama’s friend? You have my eyes.”

Behind me, I heard wood crack.

I turned.

Dorian’s hand had closed around the doorframe so tightly that the paint had split. His face was white. His mouth hung open, but no words came out.

When he finally spoke, I barely recognized his voice.

“Mira,” he said. “Whose child is that?”