April POV:

The first rays of dawn painted the kitchen in pale, unforgiving light.

Every muscle ached.

After what felt like an eternity, he had been half-dragged, half-wrestled to the lumpy sofa in the living room. The rest of the night was spent in the armchair opposite him, too wired and too sore to sleep.

A low groan escaped him.

Long eyelashes fluttered against his cheekbones. A hand came to his forehead, brow furrowed in pain. The hangover.

Then, his eyes opened.

The hazy confusion from last night was gone. In its place was the familiar, sharp clarity of ice. His gaze met mine, and for a split second, there was a flicker of something—confusion, memory—before it was instantly shuttered.

A sudden, abrupt sit-up, the movement so fast it made me flinch. Then he scooted back, away from me, as if my proximity was physically repulsive. As if I were a disease.

The action was a slap in the face.

It hurt more than any angry words could. The desperate, possessive man from last night was gone, replaced by this cold, distant stranger.

Those eyes swept the room, taking in his own wrinkled clothes, the disarray. His jaw tightened. That was his tell. The tightening of that sharp, perfect jawline meant he was angry. Or annoyed. With him, it was hard to tell the difference.

"You were drunk last night." My voice came out quiet. No mention of the near-marking. Couldn't.

His gaze snapped to mine, cold and hard. "I remember." The voice was a dry, raspy whisper. "Whatever I said, whatever I did, forget it."

The words hung in the air between us.

"Forget it?" A bitter, incredulous laugh bubbled in my throat.

Then he was on his feet, towering over me. A caged animal, pacing the small confines of the living room, radiating tense, irritable energy.

The pacing stopped. Those eyes, sharp as shards of glass, fixed on me. "April, we need to talk about our arrangement."

The heart sank. That tone. It was his business voice. The same one he'd used when he first brought me here, after the elders declared us fated mates.

He had laid it out like a corporate merger. He would provide for me, a roof over my head, but we would have separate rooms. We would maintain a respectful distance. There would be no marking, no intimacy, until we both felt "ready."

It wasn't a courtship. It was a contract.

"I thought... last night..." The voice trailed off.

"Last night was a mistake." The words cut in, merciless. But those eyes weren't looking at me when he said it. They were fixed somewhere over my shoulder, on nothing. "It was the alcohol. It wasn't me. I apologize for my lack of control."

His apology was worse than an accusation. It dismissed everything. The Adam's apple bobbed, as if he was swallowing not just whiskey, but some bitter truth he would never share. It erased the raw, terrifying honesty of his touch, the desperate claim of his voice. It made it all meaningless.

"A mistake." The word tasted like ash. "That's all I am to you, isn't it? A mistake the Moon Goddess made. A mistake the elders forced on you. A mistake you're stuck with until you figure out how to get rid of me."

No denial. Just that jaw, tightening further, a muscle jumping beneath the skin. Silence. Heavy and damning.

The sting in my eyes was fought back with rapid blinks. No tears. Not in front of him. The chin lifted, meeting his cold gaze with a defiance not truly felt.

"Fine." Steady. Surprisingly steady. "I understand, Mr. Blackwood. Was your 'test' satisfactory?"

The formal name was used on purpose—a weapon, a way to wound him just as he had wounded me.

His pupils contracted slightly. A flicker of something in those eyes—annoyance, maybe even hurt—gone in an instant. He hated when I called him that. It drew a line in the sand that he himself had created.

A hand reached into the pocket of his jeans, pulling out his wallet. A sleek, black credit card was extracted and placed on the coffee table between us.

"This is for you." Flat. Emotionless. "Buy whatever you need."

The gesture was so dismissive, so transactional, it ignited a fire in my chest. A payment. A bribe to forget. A way to wash his hands of me and his "mistake."

The card sat there, a symbol of the chasm between us.

"I don't need your charity." Low now, shaking with anger. "I'll get a job. I'll make my own money."

He looked at me—at the stubborn set of my jaw—and a flash of irritation crossed his face. This wasn't following his script. Gratitude was expected. Or at least compliance.

The card was picked back up, slid into his wallet. His tone softened, but only marginally. Still hard. Still distant.

"I have to go into the city today. Take care of yourself."

Without another glance, he turned and walked to his bedroom, closing the door behind him. The click of the latch wasn't loud, but it sounded like a vault sealing shut, locking me out completely.

Staring at that closed door, the fight drained away, leaving a hollow, exhausted shell behind.

This whirlwind "mating" had been nothing but a series of boundaries and tests. No warmth, no romance. Just suspicion and distance.

The armchair swallowed me as I sank into it, face buried in my hands. The smell of stale whiskey and cheap perfume still lingered in the air, a phantom reminder of the night before.

A deep, shuddering breath. No tears.

He would not break me.

He wanted distance? He would get it. He wanted me to be independent? Then the most independent woman he had ever met was what I would become.

No one to rely on but myself.

The mating bond hummed in my chest, a heartstring tied to a moving target. But it could be ignored. It had to be.

From this moment on, Donovan Blackwood could go freeze in his own ice castle. No more trying to warm a man who was determined to stay cold.

April POV:

The sudden, shrill ring of the doorbell sliced through the heavy silence of the cabin.

A jolt. Heart leaping into my throat.

The first thought was Donovan. Maybe he'd finally come out of his room. Maybe he was ready to talk, to explain. A tiny, foolish flicker of hope ignited in my chest.

But his door stayed shut.

A walk to the front door, anger from earlier already dissolving into a familiar, pathetic ache of longing.

A peer through the peephole.

It wasn't Donovan.

Standing on the porch was an older woman. She had a mane of elegant silver hair swept into a perfect chignon, and she was wearing a cream-colored Chanel suit that probably cost more than this entire cabin. Behind her, a stern-looking woman in a severe black dress stood holding several large, expensive-looking shopping bags.

Parked in the driveway, right behind Donovan's dusty Ford pickup, was a gleaming black Bentley. The contrast was so absurd it was almost comical.

No idea who they were. A knot of caution tightened in my stomach. No move to open the door.

The woman on the porch didn't press the bell again. She simply waited, a small, patient smile on her face. Then, as if she knew I was watching, she leaned closer to the peephole and gave a playful wink.

The unexpected, mischievous gesture disarmed me slightly. A hesitation, hand hovering over the lock.

Suddenly, the door to Donovan's bedroom was thrown open.

He emerged fast—too fast—He stopped when he saw me standing by the door. He frowned, then pushed me aside and walked over, brushing against me without a trace of apology.

He put his eyes close to the cat's eyes.

Every ounce of color drained from his face. The alarm hardened into pure, unadulterated shock, and beneath it—unmistakable this time—a wave of something that looked terrifyingly like dread.

"Shit." Barely a whisper. A word I'd never heard him use before.

He turned to look at me, and the expression in his eyes was so raw, so completely unguarded, that it stole my breath. No ice. No walls. Just a desperate, silent plea, like a man watching the ground crack open beneath his feet.

The look was so startling, a half-step back was all I could manage.

His eyes squeezed shut for a beat. A deep breath dragged through his lungs. The shoulders squared—not in anger, but like a soldier bracing for a blow. Then the door was pulled open.

The elegant woman's smile widened. "Donovan, my dear boy! Is that any way to greet your grandmother?"

Grandmother?

My brain short-circuited. This regal, intimidating woman who looked like she'd just stepped out of a magazine was Donovan's grandmother? The man who lived in a shack and drove a beat-up truck?

Donovan just stood there. The tips of his ears had gone red—a detail so unexpected, so utterly boyish, that for a moment I forgot to be confused. He shifted his weight, blocking the doorway more out of instinct than intention. "Grandmother." His voice came out strangled. "What are you doing here?"

"Genevieve," she corrected him, her voice light but firm. A graceful sidestep, and she glided into the living room as if he were nothing more than a minor inconvenience. Her eyes, a paler, wiser version of Donovan's ice-blue, immediately found me.

A quick, assessing sweep from head to toe. But there was no judgment in her gaze, only a warm, genuine curiosity.

"Oh, dear. You must be April." Her voice flowed like warm honey. A hand extended, wrist adorned with a simple, elegant diamond bracelet. "I'm Genevieve Blackwood. Donovan's grandmother."

My hand was taken automatically. Hers was warm and surprisingly strong. "Hello, Mrs. Blackwood."

A gentle squeeze. "Please, call me Genevieve. You're even lovelier in person than you are in the photos."

Photos?

A confused look shot toward Donovan. His face had gone from pale to a dark, thunderous shade of red. The expression on his face said he wanted the ground to swallow him whole.

The woman in black, Martha, was already directing two men who had appeared out of nowhere to start unloading a mountain of expensive-looking luggage from the Bentley.

A muscle jumped at the corner of Donovan's jaw. He looked like a man watching his carefully stacked house of cards begin to wobble. "Grandmother." Lower now, strained. "What is this? We talked about this..."

"Did we?" Genevieve's long lashes blinked with feigned innocence. "Oh, that's right. You said you wanted to handle it yourself. And I can see you're doing a fine job of it. You've handled my granddaughter-in-law to the point of tears."

A pointed gesture toward my face. My hand subconsciously touched my cheek, realizing the eyes were still red and puffy from this morning.

Embarrassment made me look down. Donovan opened his mouth, then closed it. No words. Just that muscle in his jaw, working silently.

A critical eye surveyed the small, rustic cabin. Then a wide, satisfied smile spread across Genevieve's face.

"I've decided." The announcement rang through the room with cheerful authority. "I'm going to stay here for a while. It's the perfect opportunity to get to know my new granddaughter."

She beamed at me.

The sound Donovan made was somewhere between a groan and a laugh—the hollow, defeated noise of a man who knew he'd already lost.

The matriarch had arrived. And his carefully constructed, miserable little world was about to be turned completely upside down.