All Chapters of Mated To Valentine : Chapter 41 - Chapter 50

Achilles pulls away from Valentine’s embrace, his movements stiff, almost mechanical. His broad shoulders are tense, the fabric of his jeans jacket straining as he steps away. Valentine’s hand lingers in the air for a moment, fingers curling into a loose fist before dropping to his side. The air between them feels heavy, charged with something unspoken, something that makes the room feel smaller than it is.Then he turns away.Achilles boots thud against the marble floor, each step deliberate, as if he’s forcing himself to move forward. His hair falls into his face, shielding his expression, but I catch the faintest flicker of something in his red rimmed eyes. Fear.Valentine watches him go, his expression somewhere between concern and something else I can't place. His silk pajamas shimmer faintly, the deep crimson fabric catching the light as he shifts his weight. He doesn’t call out to Achilles, doesn’t try to stop him. He just stands there, silent, until the sound of Achilles’

I move through the halls of the house like a ghost, my feet barely making a sound against the polished marble.My search for Achilles has turned into a frustrating game of hide-and-seek. I’ve checked his room. The garden. The fountain. The library. The kitchen. Nothing. The house feels too big, the silence pressing in on me.I head toward the training room next. It’s my last option, though I don’t expect to find him there at this hour. But as I push open the heavy wooden door, I freeze.He’s here.And he’s tearing himself apart.Achilles stands in the dimly lit space, his fists crashing into a thick wooden training beam. Over and over. The sharp crack of skin meeting wood echoes in the air, a sickening, repetitive sound that makes my stomach twist. His knuckles are split open, blood dripping down his fingers. But he doesn’t stop. He doesn’t even flinch. His face is blank, locked in a trance, eyes fixed on the beam like it’s his greatest enemy.I step forward cautiously. “Achilles.”

The sun is low, stretching golden streaks across the campus as we step out of the last building for the day. Achilles walks beside me, his posture casual, hands shoved into his pockets, but I know better. His body may be relaxed, but his senses are razor-sharp, taking in everything—every scent, every heartbeat, every movement.And yet, he’s talking about a sweater.“So there I was, in this absurdly overpriced boutique in Paris, right?” His voice is smooth, confident, like we’re discussing weekend plans and not actively trying to avoid getting murdered. “This place had chandeliers, velvet seating, and security guards who looked like they were waiting for an excuse to throw me out. And there it was, sitting on the display table—the softest, most luxurious sweater I had ever laid eyes on.”I glance at him, unimpressed. “Let me guess. You stole it.”He scoffs. “Of course not. What kind of man do you take me for?”I just stare at him.He sighs dramatically. “Fine. I stole it.”I smirk.

I stand in front of the mirror, staring at the mountain of dresses Achilles picked out for me from Valentino. Each one is more stunning than the last, but none feel right. My fingers brush against the fabrics—silks, satins, lace—but my mind is elsewhere. Finally, I settle on a black knee-length dress with a slit that runs dangerously high, almost to my hip. The neckline is modest enough, but the way it hugs my curves makes me feel like I’m playing a role I’m not sure I’m ready for. I pull my hair into a messy bun, swipe on some lip gloss, and slip into a pair of low stilettos. The reflection staring back at me looks confident, but inside, I’m a mess.When I step into the garage, he’s there, leaning lazily against one of his cars like he’s been waiting for hours. His eyes rake over me, and that smirk of his—the one that always makes my stomach flip—spreads across his face. He doesn’t say anything at first, just pushes off the car and walks toward me. His arms wrap around me in a

I wake up to warmth.Which is ironic, considering I’m wrapped in the arms of a vampire.Valentine is wrapped around me like a possessive octopus—his arms locked around my waist, his legs tangled with mine, his face buried in my hair. It’s not just an embrace. It’s a hold, like his body is instinctively terrified I’ll disappear.I don’t remember falling asleep.The last thing I recall is the amusement park—the lights, the Ferris wheel, the sound of my laughter mixing with his. It was good. Strangely good.And now, I’m here. In his bed. Pressed against him like I belong here.I should move.I need to move.Because I really need to pee.But when I shift even slightly, his hold tightens, a low, sleepy grumble escaping his throat.I freeze.Then exhale.He’s cuddling me.The dark, brooding, insufferable prince of the night is cuddling me like a clingy cat.I bite my lip, torn between basking in this—because let’s be real, his body is unfairly comfortable—and actually listening to my bladd