Olivia’s POV
For a mont, I went dumbfounded. Frederick... apologizing? That was sothing I never saw coming. What the hell! This man kept surprising , and I wondered what he would do next. I raised a brow slowly. "Are you apologizing?"
"Yes." He answered with a curt nod, his tone calm, almost too calm.
My frown deepened as I studied him carefully. This wasn’t what I expected. Who was this soft-spoken Frederick sitting in bed, staring at like I mattered? Where was the cruel, carved man I knew? Where was the monster who claid , threatened to kill ?
"Now," his voice lowered, gentler than before, "could you please change and co to bed?... It’s late." He wasn’t ordering this ti. He was pleading.
The sound of it made my chest tighten with unease. My wolf snarled inside , unsettled. Pleading wasn’t his style. It felt wrong. Off.
I tilted my head, arms still folded. "And what if I don’t?" I asked, trying to annoy him.
His eyes held mine, calm, unblinking. "Then I’ll still be here, waiting. Because no matter how much you fight , Olivia, I want you close. Not across the room. Not on a sofa. Beside ."
The words rattled through and I swallowed hard, forcing my mask of irritation back into place. He was playing a ga; he had to be.
But goodness — he was playing it well.
Huffing, I stood to my feet, grabbed the shirt he’d laid out for , and stalked into the bathroom. The water was quick and cold, doing little to settle the emotions raging inside . My wolf paced restlessly, snarling at the thought of wearing anything of his, but for the sake of the plan—I forced her quiet.
When I stepped out, the shirt clung loosely to my damp skin, its fabric carrying his faint scent. It made my stomach twist.
Frederick was still on the bed when I ca out, reclining against the pillows, a wine glass resting on the nightstand. His gaze lifted instantly, sweeping over with an intensity that made my skin prickle.
"Better," he murmured, his voice smooth, unreadable. "My shirt suits you much better than I—"
I rolled my eyes and moved over to the sofa, dropping onto it with a thud. "Don’t get used to it," I snapped, tugging the shirt tighter around .
A shadow of amusent crossed his face, though his tone stayed calm. "Olivia, stop fighting . I’m not asking you to fuck tonight. I only asked you to share the bed. Nothing more."
My lips curved in a bitter smirk. "You expect to believe that? Who knows—you might force yourself on ."
His eyes locked with mine, calm but serious. "I expect you to trust that I ant what I said. I don’t force. Not food. Not blood. Not won."
The gentleness in his tone unnerved more than his threats ever had. I looked away, feigning annoyance, but my chest tightened in confusion.
Minutes ticked by. He leaned back, stretching out, his eyes fluttering shut. For a heartbeat, it almost looked like peace had settled over him.
Then, without opening his eyes, he spoke gently. "Co to bed... it’s late."
With a heavy sigh, I finally pushed myself up from the sofa. Frederick hadn’t moved, though I could feel his gaze following every step I made.
I switched off the bright chandelier light, leaving only the dim wall sconce glowing in the corner. Without another word, I slipped under the covers, careful to keep as much distance between us as the bed would allow.
Frederick didn’t push, didn’t get closer. He only exhaled deeply, as though my presence beside him had been enough.
Minutes stretched into silence. My eyelids grew heavy, and sleep finally took .
But I overheard... a sound. A whisper.
I stirred, my wolf snapping awake in my chest. My eyes fluttered open, the dim light still glowing faintly, and I turned my head.
Frederick. He wasn’t awake. His eyes were closed, his brow furrowed, and his lips parted in soft, broken words.
"...Hailee..." he breathed, so faint I almost thought I imagined it. His voice cracked, low and raw, like a man haunted. "...don’t... don’t leave again..."
I lay frozen. Even in his sleep, he thought of her.
I watched him. He kept muttering words, so in French, which I couldn’t understand... It was as if he was seeing her in his dream and conversing with her. I noticed his brow furrow as he kept speaking in a strange French language, and I wished I could understand what he was saying.
He mumbled more, strings of French slipping past his lips—words I couldn’t understand, but the tone was enough for to know what was happening. Frederick was pleading. Longing. Like he was begging her, holding on to a ghost only he could see.
It felt wrong, sitting there in his bed, listening to him pour his soul out to another woman in his dreams. I swallowed hard, not knowing what to do. Should I wake him up or pretend to sleep while ignoring his mumbling?
Then, suddenly, his body jerked. His eyes snapped open, filled with sothing raw and unsettled.
He turned his head sharply, his gaze colliding with mine.
For a mont, a tense silence stretched between us. His chest heaved, his lips parted, but no words ca. Whatever he’d seen, whatever he’d felt—it was still clawing at him.
And then, without explanation, he pushed the covers aside and swung his legs to the floor.
I sat frozen as he stood, his movents sharp, restless. He didn’t spare another glance; he only put on a robe, walked over to the door, pushed it open, and just walked out, shutting the door behind him. I didn’t know what ca over , but I didn’t even think before I got up and left the room.
His scent lingered around. I followed it, my feet carrying down the corridor until I found him.
Frederick stood on the balcony, robe hanging loose on his tall fra. The night wind swept through, tugging at his hair, carrying the heavy silence between us. His hands gripped the railing so tight I could see the tension in his knuckles.
I hesitated in the doorway, my wolf urging to turn back. But sothing in —sothing I couldn’t quite na—pushed forward.
"Are you... okay?" I asked softly, the words strange on my tongue. I didn’t know why I was asking. Why was I feeling sorry for him of all people?
For a long mont, he didn’t answer. His shoulders rose and fell slowly, the weight of centuries pressing against him. Then his voice ca low, rough, almost broken.
"For years," he said, eyes fixed on the stars, "since the day she died... I never saw her. Not once. No matter how much I drank, no matter how much I bled, no matter how much I begged the gods, Hailee never ca to ."
He turned slightly. His jaw was tight, his eyes shadowed with pain.
"But tonight..." His throat bobbed, his voice filled with pain. "Tonight she ca. And she was angry, Olivia. So angry. She looked at like I was the monster she always feared I was. She didn’t speak with love. She didn’t smile. She... hated ."
His voice cracked at the last word, so faint I almost missed it.
And for the first ti, staring at this cruel, relentless man, I saw sothing else entirely.
Not a monster.
But a man haunted. A brokenhearted man.
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