Tethered By Fate

Chapter Four

Chapter 4

He was following me.

Not rushing. Not calling out. Just walking—calm, steady, eyes locked on me like he had all the time in the world.

I didn’t exactly disappear from the Harvest Convergence, more like executed a tactical withdrawal. You know, like a ninja, if ninjas were awkward and terrified of emotional disasters.

The perfect hiding spot? The cramped little supply closet behind the arena stage. It smelled like old rope and questionable decisions, but it was quiet. Dark. Safe. Well, relatively safe. At least until the door creaked.

I was crouched behind stacks of folding chairs, muttering to myself, trying to make sense of the mess in my brain.

“…Wine, wolves, and wardrobe disasters,” I whispered under my breath, hands fisted in the satin folds of my traitorous dress. “That’s what tonight boiled down to. Great job, Lily. Real smooth.Flee the scene like a deranged drama queen and nearly face-plant into a stack of stage props. Can’t shift, can’t breathe, can’t run in this death trap of a dress. Who designs these things—sadists?” I pressed my back to the wall, breathing shallowly. “Okay. It’s fine. You’re fine. Just… regroup. Closet first, emotional breakdown later.”

The door creaked again. Crap.

“Running away from me now?” The voice was smooth, cold, and disturbingly close.

I spun around, blinking at the familiar silhouette framed by the dim hallway light.

Tristan.

Of course.

“Not running,” I said quickly, trying to sound innocent while hiding behind a stack of chairs like a five-year-old avoiding bedtime.

He stepped inside, arms crossed, eyes glinting silver in the low light. “Sure looks like it.”

I cleared my throat.“I’m just… conducting an impromptu inventory check. Very important.”

Tristan’s brow arched. “Right. Because hiding behind furniture is the best way to audit stock these days.”

He took another step into the supply closet. The door clicked shut behind him, cutting off the hallway light. Now it was just us and the dim flicker of an emergency bulb buzzing overhead.

I could hear his breathing. Steady. Patient. Like a predator giving its prey a generous head start.

“I wasn’t following you,” he said, voice low and calm, almost bored.

I snorted. “Really? So you just happened to wander behind the stage? Into a supply closet? Where I happened to be conveniently hiding?”

Tristan leaned against the door like he had nowhere better to be. “You make it sound like I put effort into it.”

I blinked. “Are you saying I’m easy to find?”

“I’m saying you’re bad at hiding,” he replied, voice calm, almost bored. “You left a trail of glitter.”

My jaw dropped. “I did not.”

He gestured vaguely toward the hallway. “There’s a suspiciously sparkly path from the refreshments table to here. Very subtle.”

I followed his gaze and groaned. Of course. The hem of my dress shimmered faintly even in the low light, betraying me with every step like I’d been chased by a herd of disco balls.

I muttered, tugging at the skirt. “Who knew satin and sparkles were a security risk?”

“I really don’t want to talk right now,” I said, trying to sound firm, even if I was currently tangled in a folding chair and losing a silent battle with my own outfit.

“Then don’t,” he said simply, folding his arms.

There was a beat of silence.

“I just needed a break,” I mumbled.

“From what?” he asked.

“You.”

His eyes narrowed like a hawk locking onto its prey.

“So does your inventory usually involve muttering about wine, wolves, and wardrobe crises?” His brow lifted.

I blinked. Of course he’d heard that. The creaky old closet wasn’t exactly soundproof. Plus, I had been muttering loud enough to wake the dead.

“Eavesdropping is rude,” I snapped, dragging my chin up with as much dignity as I could muster when crouching behind discarded chairs.

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he moved. Not aggressively, but slowly. Intentionally. Like gravity tilted toward him and my spine was feeling the pull.

I stood, brushing imaginary dust from my dress, which now felt far too elegant for this closet full of mildew and unspoken questions.

“You’re my mate,” he said flatly.

I blinked. “That’s… that’s not how you say it.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “How should I say it?”

“Not like you’re reading from a grocery list!”

Laura stirred again, more alert than alarmed, but still bristling. She didn’t want me to run. She wanted to understand. Which was deeply inconvenient.

“You don’t even know me,” I continued, backing toward the chairs again. “I could be a compulsive liar. I might collect human toenails. I eat questionable cheese on a regular basis.”

Tristan’s lips quirked—barely, but it was there. A flicker of amusement.

“I don’t need to know your habits to feel the bond. It’s there. Between us.”

“Right,” I muttered. “Like a very aggressive invisible leash.”

His head tilted, eyes sharp. “You don’t feel it?”

“I refuse to feel it,” I snapped. “There’s a difference.”

Silence stretched between us. Charged. Crackling. I couldn’t tell if he was calculating or just… existing in that unnervingly still way of his.

Then he said something that really knocked the wind out of my lungs.

“Did someone reject you before?”

My stomach dropped.

He didn’t ask with pity. There was no soft inflection, no honeyed sympathy. Just blunt observation. And yet, it hit like a punch.

I turned away sharply, pretending to be very invested in the contents of a broken toolbox. “That’s none of your business.”

“It is now.”

I whirled on him. “No. No, it’s not. Just because the universe has a twisted sense of humor and decided to tangle our strings together doesn’t mean you get to dig through my personal trauma like a curious toddler with a toy box.”

His gaze didn’t flinch. “I don’t want your trauma.”

“Great! Then we’re in agreement. You go be Shadowclaw’s brooding alpha somewhere else, and I’ll stay here.”

Tristan took another step closer.

I didn’t move, but my breath hitched. Not because he was threatening but because he was close. And something inside me kept leaning toward that pull, like a compass swinging to the north.

“I’m not him,” he said simply.

My heart stuttered. Laura quieted.

“I didn’t say you were.”

“No. But you keep looking at me like you’re waiting for me to say sorry and vanish.”

His voice wasn’t angry. Just certain.

I hated that certainty.

“You don’t even know my name,” I said, grasping for control.

“Lily.”

I blinked. “You—how do you—?”

“Someone called out to you as you were running,” he replied. “I remembered.”

He was so calm, so composed. Like he could read the storm inside me and had already decided he wouldn’t be moved by it.

“I’m not interested in playing the mate game,” I whispered. “I’ve seen what it does to people. Makes them desperate. Pathetic. Weak.”

“And you think I’m weak?”

I looked up at him.

Tristan Hale wasn’t weak. He was the kind of strong that didn’t need to shout. The kind of power that walked into a room and shifted the atmosphere without lifting a finger.

“No,” I admitted quietly. “I think you’re dangerous.”

Something flickered in his eyes. Not pride. Not ego. Something darker. Sadder.

“So are you,” he said.

I laughed—sharp and startled. “Me? I’m the emotional equivalent of a wet napkin.”

He didn’t smile. He just looked at me. Really looked.

“Don’t lie to yourself, Lily.”

And with that, he turned, opened the door, and left.

Just like that.

Like he hadn’t walked in, flipped my world inside out, and dropped a truth bomb like a mic at the end of a performance.

The moment the door clicked shut behind him, I sank down onto the closest crate.

Laura was quiet. Not content, not excited—just… listening.

“I hate him,” I muttered.

Laura hummed softly.

Liar.

I didn’t move for several minutes. Just sat there, surrounded by mop handles and tangled string lights, trying to catch my breath.

Trying to pretend I hadn’t just met the one person I was supposed to be tied to for the rest of my life.

And that I didn’t feel something terrifyingly magnetic every time he looked at me.

But I did.

Oh, I did.

And that? That was the real problem.