Noah's POV
Logan doesn't raise his voice. Doesn't accuse.
But the words hang between us like a guillotine and the question slices clean through me all the same.
"So tell me, Noah… who are you meeting at that club tomorrow?"
The lack of anger in his voice guts me. It's worse than anger—it's hurt. The kind of hurt that comes from being shut out. The kind I never thought I'd never make him feel.
My mouth opens, but no sound comes out. My throat is dry—parched like I swallowed dust. Cold sweat beads along my spine. My fingers twitch at my sides. My lungs forget how to move.
Finnian is pacing in my chest, whining, howling, pawing at the inside of my ribs. She snarls, clawing at my ribs.
'Tell him. Tell him the truth. He's your mate. Ours. Just tell him—'
But I can't.
My human throat closes like a fist, trapping the words inside.
