Chapter 107: Somebody Lied

(GRIFFIN)

I should leave Seattle and return to my kingdom, to my people who need me. But I can’t bring myself to walk away again.

The city wraps around me like a foreign blanket as I stand outside GenTherapeutics, watching the lights still burning on the top floor where Maya works through another late night. Rain drizzles down, clinging to my hair, my shoulders, my skin. I hardly feel it.

All I feel is the hollow ache where our bond should be, where it still is, diminished but refusing to die completely.

Maya’s words echo in my mind: “Your people killed my mother, and you’re here to collect on a contract based around her?”

Did they? Did someone from my kingdom murder Helen Sorin? The thought leaves me cold in a way the rain never could.

I close my eyes, remembering that night. The search for the facility had been grueling, fruitless. We ultimately found the building, abandoned, cleared out. Evidence destroyed. Only the cells remained as grim testimony to what had happened there. Seven survivors, barely alive.

When we returned the next night, exhaustion bone-deep, the news of Helen’s death hit me like a physical blow. The cottage was reduced to ashes. Maya was gone.

Erik had found me standing in her empty lab. “She left late this afternoon,” he said quietly. “She wouldn’t tell anyone where she was going. I’ve asked around.”

I remember walking to what remained of her cottage, sifting through the charred ruins. The dress, the beautiful red dress I’d chosen for her, was balled up on top of a pile of rubble, looking like it had been thrown there after the fact. I took it with me, unable to explain the impulse that made me rescue it from the trash heap.

Now, with Maya’s accusations ringing in my ears, I wonder who gave the order to throw it away. Who investigated the fire, the one I was told was already complete, neatly tied up with a conclusion of “faulty wiring”? Was I too consumed by grief, by duty, to question it?

“I wish I’d agreed to help Cassian. At least he didn’t burn my mother alive!”

Remembering the rage in her voice makes my wolf pace and snarl, desperate to fix what I’ve broken. I pull out my phone and dial Erik.

“Have you spoken to her?” he asks immediately, not bothering with formalities. “Yes.” My voice sounds hollow to my own ears. “She refused.”

“Then, come home. We’ll figure it out some other way.”

I gaze up at the window where I know she works. “I need you to reopen the investigation into Helen Sorin’s death. Full access to all records. I want to know who conducted it, who signed off on the conclusions.”

A long silence stretches between us. “Griffin—”

I cut him off. “Maya believes her mother was murdered. And that I knew.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Erik protests. “Why would you—”

“She was told that we received a message about the fire and chose not to return.” My voice hardens. “Someone lied to her, Erik.”

I can practically hear his mind working through the implications. “I’ll look into it. But Griffin, you need to come back. The kingdom needs its king.”

“The kingdom needs a cure,” I counter. “And the only person who can provide it believes we murdered her mother.”

“And you think you can convince her to change her mind?”

I don’t answer.

“Griffin,” Erik sighs. “You’re not just the king. You’re her fated mate. If—”

“I know what I am. I’ll be in touch,” I say sharply, ending the call before he can argue further.

The lights finally go out in Maya’s office. Minutes later, she appears at the main entrance, her white lab coat traded for a dark jacket. She looks so small, so alone as she steps out into the rain.

I follow at a distance, staying in the shadows. Her path home is the same each night, past the coffee shop on the corner, through the park, to a nondescript apartment building twenty minutes from her workplace.

Tonight, she stops at a liquor store. Again.

It’s another pattern I’ve noticed in the days I’ve been watching her. She does this every night. She emerges with a paper bag that does little to disguise the two wine bottles inside it. I know that in the morning, the wine bottles will be in her trash outside.

Research tells me that the amount of alcohol she seems to be consuming is dangerous for a human, slowly killing her as surely as any disease. The thought of her drinking alone in that empty apartment, deliberately poisoning herself, makes something primal howl inside me.

But I keep my distance, respecting the boundaries she has drawn even as I break them by watching over her.

At her apartment building, she fumbles with her keys, shoulders slumped with exhaustion and what I suspect is already the beginning of intoxication. Inside, lights come on in a third-floor window. I settle in for another night beneath the cold Seattle sky, my eyes fixed on where she lives, wondering what I’ve done.

The prophecy flashes through my mind, then the interpretation I received from Isla: “Your fated mate will die once you mark her, and you will be the one who takes her life.”

I pushed Maya away to save her, convinced the prophecy meant I would somehow cause her death if I claimed her. But now I wonder if I’ve set her on a path to destruction by letting her go.

The young witch’s words haunt me: “The prophecies of the old bloodline are never wrong.” But she also said prophecies can be misinterpreted. Twisted.

What if my absence is what’s killing Maya, slowly but surely?

The thought keeps me rooted to the spot long after her lights go out, long after the rain soaks through my clothes to the skin beneath.

***

For three more days, I watch. Each night, she follows the same ritual: work until exhaustion, alcohol, and isolation. She speaks to no one outside of work except the occasional cashier or bartender. No friends visit. No phone calls last more than a minute.

The nights she doesn’t buy a bottle or two, she goes to a bar instead. A dive several blocks from her apartment, where the bartender knows her by name and starts pouring her usual without asking.

I’ve done this to her.

The realization sits like lead in my stomach as I watch her push through the door into the bar on the fourth night, shoulders curled inward as if against a permanent, invisible weight.

I need to leave. I’ve seen enough to know she won’t help, won’t return with me. My presence here is an invasion she never asked for.

Yet I find myself following her again when she stumbles out three hours later, her steps uneven, her path home a wavering line through rain-slicked streets.

She takes a wrong turn. And another. Suddenly, she’s in an unfamiliar alley, narrower and darker than her usual route home.

That’s when I smell them, three men, alcohol and adrenaline sharp in their scent, predatory intent unmistakable. My body moves before I can think, instinct overriding caution.

They’ve already surrounded her, laughing at something one of them has said. Maya stands frozen, just staring at them, her face expressionless. Why isn’t she moving? Why isn’t she leaving?

“Look, sweetheart, we just want to talk,” one of the men says, moving closer.

She doesn’t answer, doesn’t walk away. Just stands there, almost as if she’s waiting for whatever comes next. The lack of self-preservation in her posture finally hits me. She’s not going to fight. She’s not going to run.

“Get away from her,” I growl, stepping from the shadows.

All heads turn toward me. The men exchange glances, assessing. I know what they see—expensive suit, no visible weapon.

One against three. They don’t recognize the warrior in their midst. “Mind your own business, man,” one says dismissively.

“This is my business.” I move closer, positioning myself between her and them. “Griffin?” Maya’s voice is slurred. “What the hell do you want now?”

I don’t answer her. I won’t take my eyes off the threats surrounding us.

“Looks like the lady doesn’t want your help,” the tallest man says, grinning. “So, why don’t you run along before you get hurt?”

Something about his tone, the casual assumption that he has any power in this situation, makes my control snap. The growl that rumbles from my chest is barely human.

“Leave,” I order, my voice carrying an authority that not many humans can fully resist. “Now.”

Two of them hesitate. But the tallest stands his ground, pulling a knife from his pocket that gleams dully in the dim light. “Make me,” he says.

I’m on him before the second word leaves his mouth. The knife clatters to the ground as I lift him by the throat, my fingers tightening just enough to restrict his breathing. His eyes bulge with terror as he finally recognizes what I am, something other than human, something dangerous.

“I could kill you,” I say softly, for his ears alone. “Break your neck before your heart completes its next beat.” I tighten my grip a fraction more. “Remember that the next time you think of hunting women in dark alleys.”

I throw him aside like the trash he is. He hits the wall hard enough to crack the brick and slides to the ground with a groan.

His friends are already fleeing, survival winning out over loyalty.

Turning to Maya, I find her staring at me with wide, unreadable eyes. “Are you hurt?” I ask, scanning her for injuries.

She stares at me before picking up her bag, which must have fallen at some point, and staggering out of the alley. “Maya—”

Her feet trip over the uneven pavement.

I catch her before she falls, lifting her into my arms. She doesn’t protest, just lets her head rest against my shoulder, her eyes fluttering shut. The trust in the gesture makes my heart clench painfully.

“I’m taking you home,” I tell her, already moving toward her apartment building. Her lack of objection worries me more than any protest would have.

At her door, she fumbles with her keys until I gently take them from her and unlock it with steady hands. Her apartment is sparsely furnished, impersonal. A temporary stop, not a home. There is a television in the living room. An armchair facing it and a small table to the side. There is nothing else in the room. No pictures, no books, no shelves. Just an unassuming living room with a place to sit, something to put her things on, and a TV that looks like it has seen better days.

The place looks so lonely.

I set her down carefully in the armchair. Her eyes track my movements as I fill a glass with water in her kitchen and bring it to her.

“Drink,” I say, pressing it into her hands.

She complies mechanically. When she finishes, she sets the glass down and immediately reaches for a half-empty bottle on the side table.

“No.” I move it out of reach. “You’ve had enough.”

Something flashes in her eyes, the first real emotion I’ve seen since our confrontation in the conference room. “Give it back.”

“No.”

“It’s mine.” Her voice rises slightly. “You have no right—”

“I have every right,” I counter, surprised by the firmness in my voice. “I am your—” I stop myself before the word “mate” can escape.

“You are nothing to me,” she says, but the words lack conviction. She’s too tired, too drunk to maintain the façade of indifference.

“Maya.” I crouch before her, bringing myself down to her eye level. “What are you doing to yourself?” Her laugh is bitter, hollow. “Living. Supposedly.”

“This isn’t living.”

“What would you know about it?” She tries to stand up but teeters. I catch her again and steady her. “Let go of me,” she says.

I do so, reluctantly. She sways a bit more but remains upright. “Why are you here?” she demands.

“Because I can’t leave,” I admit. The honesty surprises us both. “Not with you like this.”

“Like what? Happy? Free?”

“Miserable. Self-destructive.”

Her face crumples suddenly, the mask falling away completely. No tears come, but her body seems to fold in two as she sinks back down into the chair.

“Go away, Griffin,” she whispers. “Please. Just go.”

Instead, I sit on the arm of the chair, next to her. Not touching, but close enough that she can lean against me if she chooses to. “Your mother wouldn’t want this for you,” I say quietly.

The sound she makes is too raw to be called a sob. “Don’t. Don’t you dare talk about her.”

“She loved you more than anything. She was so proud of you, Maya.” “Stop.” Her voice breaks. “Please stop.”

“She wouldn’t want you punishing yourself like this.”

“I’m not—” she begins, then stops, as if she can’t bring herself to voice the lie.

“You are.” I risk touching her then, just the lightest brush of fingers against her wrist. “And I need to know why. Is it because of what happened to her? Or because of what I said that night?”

Her eyes meet mine, bloodshot and weary. “Both,” she whispers. “Neither. I don’t know anymore.” Something inside me cracks at the admission. “Maya, I—”

But she’s already curling in on herself, tears finally spilling over. I pull her against me, cradling her as she weeps, horrible, gut-wrenching sobs that shake her entire body.

“She’s gone,” she gasps between breaths. “She’s gone, and I’m all alone, and I just want it to stop hurting.”

“I know,” I murmur into her hair. “I know, Maya.”

She cries until there’s nothing left, until her body goes limp with exhaustion. I hold her through it all, stroking her hair, wishing I could absorb her pain.

Eventually, her breathing evens out, deepens. She has fallen asleep, tear tracks still damp on her cheeks. I move slightly, preparing to carry her to her bed, but she makes a small sound of protest in her sleep, and her fingers clutch at my shirt.

I carry her to the bedroom, and once again, it’s sparse. A mattress on the floor in one corner and a wardrobe opposite it. After laying her down, I look through her wardrobe. She only has a handful of clothes, not even filling the space. Her kitchen is similar. A small fridge with nothing in it. But then, I already know she eats takeout. Even her freezer is empty.

I check in on Maya before slipping out to a grocery store near her building. I make a few purchases, enough to stock her kitchen. I also go into a furniture store that is about to close for the night and order a comfortable, two-seater couch and a nice coffee table, along with a proper bed.

I know she has the money. I also know she doesn’t care about these things. But I do. I care that she lives in a dump that isn’t worthy of her. I care that she’s slowly poisoning herself. Does she think that because no one is left in her life, she should treat herself like this?

I recall the look in her eyes when she was faced with the three men surrounding her. She wasn’t scared. If anything, she seemed relieved at the idea of her possible death. And that terrified me.

It terrifies me what she has been reduced to. She’s not the Maya I remember, not the brave and witty girl who rescued us from hell.

I return to her apartment and put away the groceries as I wait for the furniture. I booked the one-hour delivery, paying over the top for the late-night inconvenience to the shop owners.

As the furniture arrives, my mate sleeps, dead to the world. After I set it all up, I place her on the soft, new mattress, where she curls up into a ball.

I allow myself this one night, this stolen time with her. Tomorrow I’ll leave, as she asked. But tonight, I hold her as she sleeps, memorizing the feel of her weight against me, the rhythm of her breathing, the scent of her hair.

My mate. My heart.

Dawn finds me still awake, still holding her. Gently, I disentangle myself, pulling the blanket over her as the air conditioner drones on. In her kitchen, I make coffee, toast, eggs, a simple meal that won’t aggravate what will undoubtedly be a severe hangover when she wakes.

I leave the breakfast on her new coffee table beside a glass of water and painkillers. Then, forcing myself not to look back, I slip out the door and into the morning light.

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