Destiny's Game* Chapter 40: Find Him

Louis’ POV

My biological clock never failed .

Even if I went to bed late, six a.m. always dragged back to consciousness.

Not that I even slept on the bed last night.

I’d crashed on the new sofa Alistair bought for our room—small, firm, and absolutely not ant for an alpha’s shoulders. But I couldn’t bring myself to lie beside him. Not after... yesterday. Not after the way my chest kept pulling toward Charles like a tide I refused to acknowledge.

I didn’t understand it.

Why was I afraid of my own mate?

I showered, dressed, and headed downstairs.

Mother was already seated, prim and unreadable. Father and Alistair ca in shortly after and took their places, but Charles was nowhere in sight. Mother’s expression tightened—that look she wore whenever Charles didn’t imdiately fit into her expectations.

Maybe he overslept, I thought. He always had that lazy-morning softness to him.

Before I could say anything, Alistair volunteered to go check on him.

Father looked at then, smiling in that businesslike way that always felt like a negotiation.

"You should make strong connections with Alistair’s family. That’s why I agreed to this wedding," he said.

His tone was casual. His aning wasn’t.

I felt irritation prick beneath my skin.

I hated when he said things like that.

As if I were so bargaining chip.

As if the marriage was nothing more than a transaction arranged between two powerful families.

My jaw tightened. "I’ve already t plenty of Alistair’s relatives."

Father waved it off. "eting isn’t the sa as building influence, Louis. These connections matter."

Bonds.

If he only knew which bond was actually tearing apart.

Mother sipped her tea, quiet but disapproving. She didn’t need to speak; the judgnt was already there, hovering over the table like steam.

Footsteps descended the stairs.

Alistair walked in alone.

No Charles.

My chest pinched—too quick, too sharp.

"He’s... not in his room," Alistair said. "The bed’s made. Looks like he never slept there."

Mother set her cup down with a soft clink. "At this hour? Where would he go?"

"He didn’t leave from upstairs," Alistair added. "Front door was locked from the inside when I ca down. Maybe he left last night?"

Father exhaled, annoyed. "That boy has no discipline."

But Alistair wasn’t looking at him.

He was staring at .

Not accusing—but searching.

As if trying to piece together sothing I refused to admit even to myself.

Because if Charles left the house without a word...

If he chose to be anywhere but under the sa roof as ...

Then it was because of .

And the part of —deep, instinctive, mate-bound—wanted to get up from this table and go find him so badly my fingers curled against the wood to keep still.

"Denial’s a river in Egypt."

I froze.

It wasn’t a real voice in the room—no one had spoken.

It ca from .

From that place in my head I tried so hard to starve into silence.

Shut up, I thought sharply, my brow tightening just enough that Mother glanced my way.

The voice didn’t retreat.

It never did when it ca to him.

It was old, older than my first shift, older than my training, older even than any logic I tried to cling to.

A primitive thing.

A territorial thing.

The part of wired to protect, rip, tear—whatever was required.

A part that had always cared about only one person.

Charles.

It snarled at my denial, annoyed.

You’re pretending again, it hissed.

Pretending you don’t know why he left. Pretending you don’t want to go after him.

I gripped the edge of the table until my knuckles whitened.

I hated that voice.

Not because it was cruel—but because it was right.

Always right.

My father was still talking about alliances.

Mother was still scowling into her tea.

Alistair was still watching , suspicious and concerned in equal asure.

And underneath all of it—

That voice whispered again, cold and certain:

Find him.

Before soone else does.

My heart thudded hard enough that I felt it in my teeth.

Because the worst part wasn’t the voice’s hunger for blood, or its possessiveness, or its razor-sharp instincts.

The worst part was that, deep down—

I agreed.

At tis—far too many tis—I wondered if Charles would’ve been happier if he weren’t my mate.

If he’d been paired with soone calr.

Soone cleaner.

Soone who didn’t break things just by standing too close.

Soone who didn’t carry a darkness inside him that whispered about blood and possession and the fear of losing what little he had.

A mory hit with the force of a punch.

He’d been eleven.

Small. Quiet.

Still learning how to look people in the eye without flinching.

It was the first night he slept in our house.

He was sitting on the floor in front of my bed, arms wrapped around his knees—not crying, but holding himself in that fragile, silent way he always did before the tears even thought of coming.

"Louis," he’d whispered, voice trembling with sothing more than fear.

"Why do people hate ?"

The question had gutted even back then.

He didn’t ask why they avoided him.

Why they talked behind his back.

Why they stared at him like he was a puzzle with missing edges.

Hate.

That was the word he chose.

I rembered climbing off the bed, sitting beside him, our shoulders barely brushing.

"I don’t know, Charles," I’d said quietly.

Because I didn’t.

Because nothing about him was hateable.

He was soft and strange and brilliant and broken in ways that made people uncomfortable.

I’d put my hand on his back, awkwardly, protectively, instinctively.

"But I’ll always love you."

He’d believed .

Worse—he’d trusted .

More deeply than anyone else in his life.

Even now, sitting at this damn breakfast table, with my parents lecturing and Alistair watching like I was leaking emotion, the mory clung to like smoke.

And that old voice in —the one that only cared about Charles—stirred again, low and dangerous.

You promised him, it hissed.

And you failed.

My throat tightened.

Maybe it was right.

Maybe Charles would have been happier if he’d never been tied to at all.

The voice wasn’t usually this loud.

Most days it was a faint buzz in the back of my mind—an intrusive thought, a passing judgnt, the kind of shadow that appeared only when I was tired or cornered or pretending too hard.

But today, it didn’t slip in quietly.

It hit like guilt always did—sudden, heavy, slicing through the thin control I was clinging to.

You’re weak.

Scared.

Is your family the real problem... or is it you?

The thought wasn’t a voice, not really.

Just a sharp echo of sothing I already feared might be true.

My jaw tightened.

I hated that it made sense.

Because maybe it wasn’t my parents.

Maybe it wasn’t the house, or the expectations, or the pressures of the wedding.

Maybe it wasn’t even Charles pulling in one direction and my duty pulling in the other.

Maybe the problem was .

Maybe I was the one breaking things without aning to.

Maybe I was the one pushing Charles away and then panicking when he didn’t stay.

Maybe I was the one too scared to face what being his mate actually ant.

The guilt pressed deeper, spreading over my ribs like a bruise.

You promised him.

And you’re still running.

I swallowed hard, forcing my expression into sothing calm as my father continued talking.

But all I could think about—

all I could feel—

was the sudden, terrifying realization that I might be the one hurting Charles the most.

And that maybe... I always had been.

The intrusive thought didn’t fade.

It lingered—sharp, persistent—until more followed behind it like falling dominoes.

You dragged Alistair into this.

Into your confusion. Your fear. Your ss.

My throat tightened.

It was true.

I’d let the engagent move forward because it was easier than confronting the chaos inside .

Easier than acknowledging how Charles made co undone just by existing.

Easier than admitting that duty and affection weren’t the sa thing.

I wasn’t even sure if I loved Alistair.

Not in the way he deserved.

Not in the way he looked at —with certainty, with confidence, with a future he thought we shared.

And I wasn’t sure he loved either.

Not the real .

Not the version of that still woke up thinking about Charles’ heartbeat, or the way his scent felt like safety, or the quiet ache in my chest whenever he walked out of a room.

I’d built this entire situation on hesitation.

On fear.

On the desperate hope that if I just kept moving, kept agreeing, kept performing, eventually the confusion would quiet itself.

But all I’d done was tie Alistair to a fate I wasn’t even sure I wanted.

And worse—

I’d tied Charles to the sa uncertainty.

My father kept talking about alliances and reputation and responsibility, but all I could hear was the truth pressing against my ribs:

You hurt everyone because you’re too scared to choose.

I lowered my gaze, fingers curling against my thigh.

For a mont, I wished I could disappear—

not run, not fight—

just stop existing long enough for the world to settle without ruining it.

But the world didn’t pause.

And neither did the guilt.

It sat heavy in my chest as I whispered silently to myself:

"I don’t know if I love him.

I don’t know if he loves .

I don’t know anything anymore."

And admitting that felt like the first honest thing I’d said in years.