Chapter 97

It's been two days. Every muscle, bone, and sinew in Victor's body aches. It's like the disks in his spine have been replaced by razor blades, and no amount of drink seems to dull the pain.

Blindly seeing crimson, Victor tosses his glass into the opposite wall, shattering the thing into a million pieces.

Then, chest heaving, he moves himself to the bathroom to sober up, drawing a hot bath. He wants so badly to move on.

Only the man in the mirror is a stranger to him as he hovers over the sink, eyes glowing with red agitation. Who did he become in the last five years?

And who is Ariadne Emerson to him?

The Alpha looks older, fatter, the barest of laugh lines touching his eyes, the ghost of untold joy.

But the most notable difference is the scar on his neck, the mark on his scent glands. It was something he promised he'd never do to himself, bear such a thing.

The same thing that ended up killing his father.

And the way Ariadne Emerson knew him, so well, so completely. How in love were