~Amias’s Point Of View~
The school sleeps, but Amias doesn’t.
The fight with Darien still crackles in his bones like static, bruises singing with every breath he takes. The moonlight cuts through his curtains in cold slivers, painting the walls in pale silver. He sits on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, hands clasped so tight his knuckles go white.
His room slls like iron and soap. It’s the aftermath of trying to wash away blood that didn’t co off completely. He can still see Darien’s face in flashes. He can see the fury, the pain, and the wild helplessness that mirrored his own.
He understands that anger. Hell, he breathes it because if the twins’ marks on Heidi had burned Darien’s pride, they’d carved through Amias’s soul.
He drags a hand down his face, fingers trembling against the sting of a split lip. His jaw aches from Darien’s punch, but the physical pain feels rciful compared to the other kind... the one gnawing beneath his ribs.
He told himself he wouldn’t care. He told himself he’d be better than this. But then he saw those faint marks on Heidi’s neck, the twin bites where his own should have been — and sothing inside him broke so violently he still hasn’t figured out how to breathe around it.
He lets out a low growl that doesn’t sound entirely human. "Fucking idiots," he mutters though he doesn’t even know if he ans his brothers or himself.
The twins... selfish bastards. They would never risk their lives for anyone. Hell, he can bet they can’t even risk their asses for their own mother. Rayne’s kids are reckless and senseless. And yet they had gone into the labyrinth. For her. For Heidi.
That’s the power of the mate bond. That’s the kind of madness that turns arrogance into desperation.
And he gets it. Goddess, he gets it because he’d go to the ends of hell for her too.
His eyes flick to the half-empty bottle of whiskey on the table. He reaches for it, downs a gulp, and hisses as it burns his throat. The alcohol doesn’t dull the ache. It just amplifies the silence.
He thinks of Heidi. He thinks of the way she’d looked at him that night in the forest, like he was the only one who could steady her shaking world. Her scent had been everywhere, heady and sweet, wildflowers crushed under rain. Her body had fit so perfectly against his, her skin warm and trembling under his touch. Her breath had been ragged. Her lips were swollen from kissing him until the world blurred.
He rembers her breathless and needy whisper. "Amias... please."
He hadn’t given in. He’d stopped her.
He rembers how she’d tilted her head with wide and confused eyes. He’d told her no. Because he had a girlfriend. Because it was wrong. Because it wasn’t supposed to be like that. He’d walked away like a fool, leaving her wolf crying for him.
Hell, she’d been in heat. He knows... knew that’s how it always has been for every wolf during a full moon, not to ntion a newly awakened one. Of course, she’d want sex—want him.
Now he wonders — if he hadn’t walked away, if he’d let instinct take over, if he’d given in and marked her first, would she be his alone now? Would she still have gone to Morgan and Grayson?
The thought crushes him.
He slams the bottle down on the table, hard enough for the glass to crack. Whiskey spills over the edge, dripping onto the floor like amber tears.
"Stupid," he mutters. "You’re so fucking stupid."
He stands abruptly, pacing. The floorboards creak under his weight, the echo bouncing off the walls.
His wolf that has been silent all this while, stirs faintly in his chest. "You think you could’ve changed fate?" he asks in that low voice. "She was never yours alone. Share or lose her."
"Shut up." His bottom lip shakes.
"She’s theirs now."
"I said shut up!"
"She chose them. You’re just the extra piece."
Fucking hell.
At that, Amias snarls and hurls the cracked bottle at the wall. It explodes, glass scattering, liquid splattering the stone. The sharp scent of whiskey mixes with the faint copper tang of old blood. It slls like ruin.
He stumbles backward until his knees hit the bed, then collapses onto it, burying his face in his hands.
He shouldn’t feel this way. He has Lira. Lira, with her soft hands and her loyalty, who looks at him like he hung the stars. But even thinking her na makes him feel like a liar. Because no matter how he tries, Lira isn’t the one he dreams of. When he closes his eyes, it’s Heidi’s voice he hears, whispering his na. It’s Heidi’s scent that drives him wild.
It’s Heidi.
And now she’s gone. Not dead, worse. Claid. Marked. Taken by the two people he could never bring himself to hate more than he already did. His brothers.
He presses his thumbs into his eyes until sparks dance behind his lids. The pain is sharp, imdiate, and grounding. But not enough. Never enough.
He needs it to stop.
So he reaches for the knife.
It’s small. A hunting blade, silver-edged, kept for no reason other than habit. He flips it open, watching the blade catch the moonlight. His reflection glints faintly on it, fractured by the curve of the steel.
He sits up straighter, rolls up his sleeve. And without a sound, he presses the blade to his forearm and drags.
The first cut is shallow. It’s a thin red line that beads and runs. He exhales shakily, chest heaving. The pain blossoms bright and hot, sharp enough to drown out everything else for a second. It’s a relief. A twisted one, but it’s sothing. Because emotional pain is chaos. It’s wild and shapeless. Physical pain is simple. It’s manageable and real. He’d rather feel this pain than the one in his chest.
Hence, he cuts again. And again.
He watches the blood trail down his wrist, drip off his fingers, staining his jeans.
Vark whines inside him. "Stop it. You’re hurting us."
"That’s the point," Amias whispers in response.
Because he needs to feel sothing he can control. Because every ti he thinks about her neck, about those damn marks... he feels like his ribs are splitting open.
He leans back against the wall in shallow breaths. The wounds sting, then begin to slowly close. His body heals too fast. It’s almost insulting. He can’t even stay broken long enough to feel punished.
He lets out a grunted laugh. "Guess even pain doesn’t want to stay with ."
His eyes sting, though tears never fall from them. Amias doesn’t cry. He hasn’t since he was twelve. Not when his father told him to man up. Not when his wolf first rejected him for weakness. Not even when he watched the woman who might’ve been his confidant, be an exemplary mother walk away into soone else’s arms other than his father’s.
But tonight... he feels close.
He curls his fingers into fists, reopening the cuts just to feel the sting again. His breathing steadies. The raw scent fills the room, mixing with the whiskey, turning the air heavy and intoxicating.
His head swims with it. Yes. Yes... Anything is fine. Anything other than this heartbreak. He’ll take.
Yes.
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