Chapter 155: How Could I Leave My Husband Like This?

The car stops. The tires press into the fresh layer of snow with a soft, muffled crunch, and before the engine fully dies, I’m already pushing the door open. The cold hits me like a wall—sharp, unyielding, stealing my breath for a moment. Snow falls in thick, unhurried flakes, drifting through the warm glow of the garden lights as though the world itself is exhaling.

I don’t look back.

I walk toward the house, my steps quick, my breath clouding in the frozen air. The snow crunches beneath my shoes. My stomach still aches—a dull, persistent throb coiling low in my belly, reminding me of everything I’m trying to forget. The whiskey sits sour in my throat, and the cold air does nothing to ease the nausea lingering at the edges of my senses.

Behind me, I hear his door open. His footsteps follow, quicker than mine, cutting through the silence of the falling snow.

"Ellis..."

His voice cuts through the wind, raw and desperate.

"Can we please talk?"

I don’t stop. I don’t turn.

"I don’t want to talk. Just leave."

His hand catches my wrist. The contact is sudden, his fingers cold against my flushed skin. I jerk my arm away sharply, the motion fueled by anger I no longer have the strength to sustain.

"Don’t touch me."

I keep walking—each step steady despite the pull of exhaustion, despite the restless throb in my stomach.

I reach the door. My fingers find the lock, entering the familiar passcode, and the door clicks open. I step inside, and the warmth of the house wraps around me like a suffocating embrace—a stark contrast to the cold outside.

Before the door can close, his hand is there, holding it open. He slips inside, closes the door behind him, and locks it.

The click echoes through the silence of the house—final and unyielding.

My steps come to a halt at the sound. I slowly turn to face him.

My eyes are still wet. The tears I refused to shed cling stubbornly to my lashes, catching the dim light like tiny shards of glass. I hate that he can see them. I hate that he’s here. I hate the way my heart stutters whenever I look at him.

"Why the hell did you come inside?" My voice is sharp, cutting through the stillness like a blade. "I don’t want to see your face. Get out."

He doesn’t answer. He just walks toward me—slow, unhurried, his steps deliberate, each one measured and certain.

Then I feel it.

His scent.

It begins to rise again—slowly, intentionally, filling the space between us like a tide I can’t hold back. It wraps around me, familiar and warm. It fills my lungs, my chest, my mind, leaving my thoughts hazy and dizzy. I feel my resolve begin to fray at the edges.

My fists clench at my sides, nails digging into my palms.

He’s doing this on purpose.

"Stop it." My voice is sharp, dangerous. "Stop whatever you’re doing, or I’ll actually kill you this time."

He doesn’t stop. His voice is low, quiet, almost gentle—a stark contrast to the storm raging inside me.

"Stop what?"

My brows knit with frustration. He knows exactly what he’s doing.

He stops in front of me—too close. The space between us is thin, charged with everything left unsaid. His hand rises, reaching for mine slowly, carefully, as though I’m something fragile that might shatter beneath the wrong touch.

He pries open my clenched fists, one finger at a time. His touch is warm, insistent, and I feel the fight slowly drain from my body in reluctant waves.

"I’m doing this because it makes you comfortable." His voice is soft, certain, like he’s simply stating a fact. "Doesn’t it?"

I step back quickly. The distance between us still feels too small. Too dangerous.

"It’s suffocating."

He steps closer, erasing the space I tried to create.

"I know you’re lying."

I step back again, my body tense, my heartbeat unsteady.

"It is."

He steps closer once more, his grip tightening ever so slightly around my hand.

"Ellis..." His voice drops lower, softer, almost pleading. "Just give me one chance. Let me explain."

A cruel smile touches my lips—bitter, sharp, a shield I’ve worn for far too long. But the smile doesn’t reach my eyes.

It never does.

"Explain what?" My voice cuts through the air like a blade. "Explain how you planned to fool me? Explain how you thought your lies were so perfect? Explain how you—"

The words catch in my throat. I feel the sting of tears rising again—unwanted, unwelcome, burning behind my eyes. I blink rapidly, trying to push them back, but they cling stubbornly to my lashes.

Silas doesn’t answer. Instead, he starts walking, still holding my hand, gently leading me toward the couch. His touch is light, guiding, insistent without ever becoming forceful.

I let myself be led.

Too tired to fight.

Too drained to resist.

He guides me down onto the couch. The cushions sink softly beneath my weight. I push his hands away from my shoulders, wiping at my eyes with the back of my hand, trying to erase every trace of my weakness.

He kneels in front of me.

His hands find mine again—warm, steady, holding them as though they’re something precious. His thumbs trace slow circles across my skin, the gesture so gentle, so unbearably tender.

"I’m sorry." His voice is quiet, fragile, like glass about to break. "For lying to you."

His face is too innocent.

Too sad.

It makes me want to look away.

He lifts my hand and presses it against his cheek. His skin is cool against my heated fingers.

"But I really want to be with my Alpha."

I yank my hand back, the motion sudden and sharp.

"Stop calling me that." My voice cracks, barely holding together. "I’m not your Alpha."

"You are my Alpha." His voice is quiet but certain, steady as stone. "And I’ve already marked you."

Frustration twists across my face. The words leave my mouth before I can stop them.

"Did you lose your mind? Do you think I’m some Omega you can just mark?" My voice rises. "How many times do I have to tell you? I’m not your Omega."

He leans forward and presses a soft kiss to the back of my hand. His lips linger for a brief moment before he pulls away.

"Okay." His voice is calm, patient. "Forget about it. You look pale. I’ll make you some soup."

I push his hands away and turn my gaze from him, staring at the wall, the window—anywhere but at him.

"Get out of my house."

Instead of leaving, he rests his head on my lap. The weight of him is warm, familiar, and I feel the softness of his hair brush against my fingers.

"But you must be hungry."

I cross my arms and snap, "I’m not hungry. Just leave."

Before he can say another word—

GRRRLLLL...

A loud, undeniable growl escapes from my stomach, shattering the silence and betraying me completely.

My eyes widen.

Heat rushes to my cheeks.

Silas looks up at me. A slow, knowing smirk tugs at the corners of his lips. He quickly bites his lower lip, trying to hide it, but I still catch the amusement flickering in his eyes.

He rises to his feet, brushing off his knees with unhurried ease.

"Freshen up," he says. "I’ll make you some soup."

I don’t look at him.

"Just get out of here."

Instead of answering, he leans down and presses a quick kiss to my cheek, his lips warm against my skin. Then he whispers near my ear, his breath soft, his voice carrying the faintest hint of a tease.

"How could I leave my husband like this?"