Page 159 of Citius

I stood petrified at the epicenter of her pain, feeling smaller and more insignificant than at any other point in my entire life.

The nails of my clenched fist dug deeper into my flesh. An oily trickle of blood, laced with our combined pheromones, ran down my hand and dropped onto the carpet, splattering against a torn photograph.

Morgan at nationals, holding a gold medal, her arm wrapped around a sturdy torso. My torso.

The blank space where my head and shoulders belonged mocked me. A glaring void created by my cowardice.

“No,” I ground out. “Not again.”

I refused to retreat a second time. We’d hurt each other enough. More than enough.

I may not be the alpha Morgan deserved, but I would be the man she needed for this moment, this new threat to her happiness.

Even if she cursed me—or forgot me entirely this time.

I would be damned before I left her alone again.