CHAPTER 187: _ BREAKDOWN

In this house, Ines, although not the Alpha’s current mate, holds more power than even Rayne who is the man’s fated mate. She is the hostess and the manager of the social and domestic ledgers. Any physical challenge, any disrespectful display of Alpha dominance toward her, would be twisted and used against him. It’s a clear, easily exploitable sign of unstable temperament that would jeopardize his reputation further in this family. Except this time, it wouldn’t stop at the family, but the entire pack. He cannot challenge her and get away with it.

The raw fury is suffocated by hard logic. Hence, Amias simply stares, letting the intensity of his hatred burn her face for a long, agonizing second.

Then, he ignores her.

He whirls around without a word, leaving the threat hanging in the air like a pulled pin on a grenade. He strides the final few feet to his suite, yanking the heavy wooden door open so violently the latch groans in protest.

"Fucking Alpha wives." He groans under his breath.

Upon arriving at the door, he slams it shut behind him. The sound is a massive BOOM that reverberates through the thick walls, undoubtedly startling everyone within earshot, including the viper still standing in the hallway.

He is in his sanctuary, the large suite furnished with the cold elegance expected of an Alpha heir. But the controlled beauty of the room draped in leather armchairs, the silver wood desk, and silk bedding only amplifies his rage. It reminds him of the false perfection he is trapped in.

Amias drops his bag to the floor. The sound is pathetic. He needs violence. He needs release. He can’t afford to feel. Only physical pain. Anything but emotional pain.

The accumulated tension of the past forty-eight hours; the revelation of the twins and Heidi, the fight with Darien, the self-harm, the sickening blackmail of Corvin, the crushing vision of Heidi driving away with his brothers, and finally, the attack by Ines all coalesce into a singular, explosive force.

He spots his desk which has atop it an antique oak piece as a trophy of his scholarly ambition. Amias lets out a guttural roar. It’s the sound of Vark unleashed and he charges.

With a superhuman surge of wolf strength, he flips the desk. The massive piece of furniture careens sideways with a terrible, splintering crash. Pens, paperweights, books, and an expensive antique inkwell fly across the room. The inkwell shatters against the wall, splattering black ink like a fresh, ugly bruise on the white paint.

He stops, panting, watching the black stain spread. It smells sharp, metallic, and strangely satisfying.

Next, his eyes go to the large mirror hanging above the defunct fireplace. It’s a long-time gift from his father and a symbol of the self-reflection and perfection expected of him. Amias snatches a heavy bronze lamp from a side table.

He hurls the lamp with the savagery of an angry god.

The mirror explodes in a deafening crescendo of shattering glass. Shards rain down onto the plush carpet and hardwood floor, reflecting the remaining ambient light in a thousand fractured, menacing slivers. The sound is cataclysmic, a definite signal to the entire wing that Amias Bellamy is unraveling.

He doesn’t feel pain; he feels a brief, terrifying elation.

He turns to the bed, ripping the silk duvet and sheets off the mattress with violent tugs. He finds a pillow and takes a perverse pleasure in tearing it apart. Feathers erupt in a comic, tragic snowstorm, swirling up and settling slowly over the chaos of the room that bears spilled ink, the shattered glass, and the overturned furniture.

He stands amidst the destruction, his chest heaving, his face slick with sweat and the faint, coppery scent of his own blood where the healing cut on his lip has split again. His rage is spent, leaving him empty, hollowed out, and utterly vulnerable.

He stumbles backward until his knees hit the wall. He slides down, collapsing onto the carpet, sinking into the soft, settling layer of white feathers. The sound of the Alpha estate is now a thick, unnatural silence, making it seem as though breath is held across the entire house.

He puts his face in his hands, staring through his splayed fingers at the black ink and the glittering shards of glass. The scene is a perfect metaphor for his life: splintered, stained, and utterly broken.

There is no more rage left to fuel him. There is only the memory of a midnight-black car and the scent of a love that chose another.

The tears he had suppressed in the car, the ones that had been burning behind his eyes since he saw Heidi leave, finally broke through. They aren’t the angry tears of childhood; they are heavy, silent, and hot. They track a path down his dust-smeared cheeks, landing in the feathers.

Lo and behold, Amias Bellamy, the cold heir, the Alpha-in-waiting, the man who prided himself on control, breaks down sobbing.

It is the raw, despairing sound of a wolf that has lost its mate and the man who has lost his purpose, echoing softly in a room that looks like it was hit by a small, contained disaster. He cries for Heidi, for his mother, for his broken family, and most of all, for the lonely, arrogant fool he realizes he is.

The floodgates are open, and the unbearable heartbreak washes over him, finally... completely.

The tears track down Amias’s face, dissolving the last stubborn fragments of his arrogant composure. He’s curled in on himself, sinking into the soft, ridiculous snowstorm of feathers, surrounded by the ruins of his own perfection. The shattered mirror offers a thousand fractured views of his pathetic state. The sheer, overwhelming relief of letting go of the control he’s maintained for years leaves him gasping.

Heidi is gone. She chose them. I’m alone like I’ve always been. Like I’m always meant to be.

The grief is a physical, crushing weight, and for the first time, he doesn’t try to fight it. He lets it flow, tasting the salt of his tears and wondering— if to cry is to heal.

The cataclysmic silence following his rampage is suddenly, jarringly interrupted.

KNOCK. KNOCK.

It’s sharp and unexpected. Amias’s body tenses. He lifts his head, blinking through the tears.

"Who the hell dares to knock on your door after hearing your breakdown?" Vark crooks in wonder because he knows how deadly Amias takes disturbances whenever he’s seen red.

Isolde. It has to be Isolde, Amias decides. He promised her they would talk. She’s the only one who would dare approach his suite after the sound of a minor earthquake emanated from within.

"Come in," he rasps, trying to clear the mucus from his throat, instinctively trying to reassert some semblance of control.

The heavy door creaks open slowly, tentatively, against the weight of the earlier slam. Amias wipes his eyes hastily with the heel of his hand, bracing himself for his little sister’s inevitable gasp and flood of concern.

But the scent that drifts in is not Isolde’s soft wildflower fragrance. It’s rose water and overly floral perfume, attempting to mask the faint, familiar scent of old and deep, gnawing desperation.

Amias’s jaw drops.

It’s not Isolde.