The Modern Witch's Guide to Faking It With a Werewolf

Max

Two days.

Two days of walking on the edge of a damn cliff, of pretending everything was fine, of watching Dallas try and act like she was totally fine. 

And now?

Now, we were on our way to a family dinner where everyone was expecting to start planning for our mating ceremony. 

Dallas huffed as she climbed into my truck, her movements too stiff, too tense.

She was upset.

She'd been pissed since we left the hospital.

And I?

I was fucking exhausted.

We hadn't talked about it—not really.

And definitely not about the fact that every time she looked at me now, her eyes held something new. Something unsure.

"Okay," I said, keeping my voice even, calm—controlled. "We can tell them tonight if that's what you want." 

Dallas's head snapped toward me so fast it was a miracle she didn't get whiplash.

Her lips parted, her hands curling into fists in her lap.

She looked... conflicted.

Like she hadn't expected me to say it.

But wasn't that what she wanted?

"I—I mean—" she stammered, then shut her mouth.

She forced herself to breathe.

To settle.

And then, finally—

"Yeah," she said, too soft, too careful.

Then, sharper—like she had to convince herself:

"This has gone on long enough. It's not like we can really go through with it."

I gripped the wheel harder.

"Yeah?" I said, not bothering to look at her. "And why's that?"

She exhaled, shifting like she suddenly couldn't get comfortable.

"Because it's not real, Max," she muttered, voice clipped, edged with something that felt dangerously close to panic.

I clenched my jaw.

Didn't say a damn thing.

Because I couldn't.

Because if I did, I'd tell her the truth.

And she didn't want that.

She scoffed, shaking her head.

"I mean, what happens when you meet your actual mate?"

I closed my eyes.

Fucking hell.

I forced a breath, forced my grip to loosen, forced myself to keep my mouth shut.

Because the truth was—

That wouldn't happen.

Because she was my mate.

But even if I told her that?

She wouldn't believe me.

Not now.

So instead, I just said, "I'm not worried about that."

Dallas turned in her seat, frowning.

"Well, you should be."

Her voice was sharper now.

Edged with something raw.

"Because if we go through with this out of duty or pride or whatever the hell this is—" she shook her head, eyes flashing "—the moment you meet her, you'll have no choice but to leave me."

That?

That broke something inside me.

I turned to her so fast she startled, my arm bracing against the center console as I leaned in.

She tried to pull back, but I didn't give her room.

Didn't let her escape what she'd just said.

"You think I'd leave you?"

Her breath hitched.

Good.

Let her feel it.

Let her sit in it.

Because fuck her for thinking that.

For thinking I could ever walk away from her.

Her lips parted, but nothing came out.

So I pushed harder.

"You think I'd take one look at some stranger—at someone who isn't you—and just... leave?"

I shook my head, bit out a bitter laugh.

"Dallas," I murmured, voice dipping lower, dangerous now. "You really don't know a damn thing about me, do you?"

She swallowed, eyes wild, flicking between mine.

"I—" she started.

Then stopped.

Again.

Because she didn't have an answer.

Because she knew she was wrong.

Because somewhere, deep down, she knew.

I let the silence sit between us.

Let it sink deep into her bones.

Then, finally—

I exhaled, running a hand over my jaw before pulling back.

I gripped the wheel again.

Focused on the road.

Said, "Put your seatbelt on."

She blinked.

Like she'd forgotten how to function.

"What?"

I started the truck.

"You heard me."

Her eyes narrowed.

For a second, I thought she might push more.

Might keep fighting.

But instead, she let out a long breath, then yanked the belt across her body like it had personally offended her.

I smirked.

She saw it.

She glared.

Then, as I pulled onto the road, she muttered under her breath—

"I hate you."

I let out a slow, satisfied exhale.

"No, you don't."

And then we drove off—

Straight toward our next disaster.