Chapter 97

Iris

The baseball bat connects with the wall with a sickening crack as Arthur ducks just in time, letting out a surprised yelp.

“Holy shit!” I shriek, the bat slipping from my hands and clattering to the floor. “Arthur! I almost took your head off!”

Arthur straightens up, his eyes wide in the dim light. “Were you trying to kill me?”

“I heard noises! I thought someone broke in,” I explain, pressing a hand to my racing heart. “I forgot you were here.”

We both look at the wall where my bat made contact. There’s a sizable dent in the drywall, with small cracks spider-webbing out from the center of impact. If Arthur had been a second slower, that would have been his skull.

“I’m so sorry,” I breathe, horrified. “I just… I was half-asleep and scared and—”

Arthur starts laughing. Not just a chuckle, but full-blown laughter that makes his shoulders shake. I stare at him, bewildered by his reaction, until the absurdity of the situation hits me too.

A giggle escapes me, then another, until I’m laughing just as hard as he is. It’s been so long since we’ve laughed together like this, the sound almost unfamiliar but so, so welcome.

“You should have seen your face,” Arthur manages between fits of laughter. “You looked like you were going to war.”

“I thought I was!” I protest, wiping tears from my eyes. The dent in the wall catches my attention again, and I wince. “My landlord is going to kill me.”

Arthur follows my gaze, then snaps his fingers as if struck by inspiration. He moves to the living room, and it’s now that I notice the slight sway in his movements, the way his feet stumble a little. He returns a moment later with an empty picture frame—one I’ve been meaning to fill for weeks.

“What are you doing?” I ask as he positions the frame over the dent and hangs it on a nearby nail.

“Voila!” He steps back, gesturing to his handiwork with a flourish. “Problem solved.”

I burst out laughing again. The frame is hilariously off-center, and it’s obvious there’s nothing inside it but a damaged wall, but there’s something so charming about his attempted solution.

“That looks terrible,” I tell him, still laughing.

“It’s avant-garde,” he insists, grinning. “Very postmodern. The empty frame represents the void in society, and the dent symbolizes the impact of authoritarian structures on individual freedom.”

“Is that so?” I can’t stop smiling. This is the Arthur I fell in love with—playful, ridiculous, quick-witted. Not the serious, buttoned-up Alpha President the world sees.

“Absolutely. I expect it to be featured in your next exhibition.”

I shake my head good-naturedly. “What were you doing up at this hour, anyway?” A quick glance at the clock reveals that it’s almost three in the morning.

Arthur’s laughter fades, and he gestures vaguely toward the counter where I now notice an open bottle of vodka—the very bottle I keep in the freezer for the occasional mixed drink—and a half-filled glass. “Couldn’t sleep.”

I frown. So that’s why he was staggering just now. “Are you drunk?” I ask.

“Not drunk,” he corrects, picking up his glass. “Just… lightly buzzed.”

I glance at the bottle—it’s noticeably depleted. “That doesn’t look like ‘lightly buzzed’ to me, Arthur.”

Arthur shrugs as he takes another sip. “It’s the only way I can get any rest these days.”

“By drinking yourself to sleep?” I ask. “That’s not healthy, Arthur. We’ve talked about this.” I step closer and take the glass from his hand, setting it down on the counter. “Why can’t you sleep?”

He meets my eyes. “You know I can’t sleep without my mate beside me.”

I knew he was going to say that, of course. He’s already told me that he hasn’t slept properly since we broke up. It’s just… hard to hear him say it again.

“You know I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in five years,” he goes on. “Not since you left. My wolf… he doesn’t understand why you’re not there. He paces all night, trying to find you.”

My throat tightens. “There’s medication for that,” I murmur.

“Trust me, I tried sleeping pills,” he says. “But they just made things worse. Weird dreams, sleep paralysis. Alcohol dulls my wolf’s anxiety enough that I can get a few hours of sleep without fucking up my body completely.”

I stare at the bottle, suddenly seeing it not as a vice but as a coping mechanism. A poor one, but still. “I knew you had a problem, but I didn’t know it was this bad.”

He shrugs and goes to pick up the glass again. “It’s just how it is.”

I shake my head and move the glass out of his way. “No more of this tonight. You’ve had enough.”

Arthur pouts, actually pouts, which confirms my suspicion that he’s drunker than he’s letting on. “But how will I sleep?”

The question leaves me taken aback. I know what he’s asking, what he wants, and part of me wants it too. After the events of today, the idea of falling asleep in Arthur’s arms is undeniably appealing.

But it’s also dangerous. We’re still figuring things out, still rebuilding trust. Jumping back into bed together, even just to sleep, feels like we’re skipping some very important steps.

And yet, looking at him—at the dark circles under his eyes, the weary slump of his shoulders—my heart aches. How can I send him back to the too-small couch when I know he’ll just lie there awake, missing me and drinking himself into oblivion?

“Just for tonight,” I finally concede. “You can sleep in my bed. But just sleeping, Arthur. Nothing else.”

I lead the way back to my bedroom, hyper aware of Arthur following close behind me. I can feel his breath on the back of my neck, and for a moment, I want to continue what we started at the gala.

Even more so when he slips off his shirt and climbs into bed beside me.

For a moment, we both lie stiffly on our backs, a careful few inches separating our bodies. This is ridiculous, I think. We were practically tearing each other’s clothes off a few hours ago, and now we’re acting like awkward teenagers.

But then Arthur shifts slightly, his arm brushing against mine, and something in me gives way. I turn onto my side, facing away from him, and scooch my hips back against him. His breath hitches slightly in the quiet room as I press my back against his side, an invitation, just like I used to do so many years ago.

“Hold me,” I whisper. It’s more of a command than a request, and Arthur obliges without hesitation.

He moves closer, turning, and presses his bare chest to my back. His warm, muscular arm wraps around my waist, his body curving to fit against mine like we were made for each other. Which, according to fate, we were.

The familiar weight of him, the warmth, the scent—it all floods my senses with memories. Hundreds of nights spent just like this, wrapped in each other’s arms, safe and content. My eyes prickle with unexpected tears.

We don’t speak after that, but we don’t need to. The rhythm of Arthur’s breathing gradually slows and deepens as sleep finally claims him. I stay awake a bit longer, savoring the feeling of being held by him again, before drifting off myself.

I haven’t slept this well in five years.

The following morning, I wake to sunlight streaming through the curtains and a small, bony knee digging into my back. Blinking sleepily, I turn to find Miles sprawled across the middle of the bed, one arm flung over his head, the other dangling off the edge.

He must have climbed in sometime in the early morning, as he often does when he wakes up before me.

Arthur, however, is nowhere to be seen.

I sit up, careful not to disturb Miles, and listen for sounds in the apartment. Nothing. The clock on my nightstand reads 8:17 AM—not late, but later than I usually sleep.

Sliding out of bed, I pad to the kitchen for coffee, still groggy and slightly disoriented. The events of last night feel almost dreamlike in the morning light.

I stop short, staring at the wall where the dent should be. The empty frame is gone, and the wall is smooth, pristine. No dent, no cracks, not even a mark to show where my bat connected.

Moving closer, I run my fingers over the surface. It’s been patched and painted, the repair job so perfect it’s like the damage never even happened. Arthur must have fixed it while I was still asleep, somehow finding the exact shade of paint to match the rest of the wall.

I can’t help but smile. And suddenly, I think I’ve got an idea for my next painting.