This was my fault.
I had put those words in her head.
I had thrown my anger at her, my own frustration, and now she believed it.
I deserved her hate. I deserved every sharp word she threw at me.
And yet, I still wanted her to let me in.
Taking a slow, deliberate breath, I lowered myself to my knees before her, not as her Alpha, not as someone with power—but as her mate.
Softly, carefully, I said, “You aren’t what I said.”
She didn’t flinch, didn’t move—just kept staring at me.
I swallowed, pushing past the lump in my throat. “If anything, you’re better than me. You’ve done more than anyone else. You handled today with strength, with grace, despite my mother and grandmother trying to set you up. I was too blind, too stubborn to see it before, but I see it now. And I know I was wrong
