The metallic scrape of your fork against the chipped ceramic plate made Daxton’s jaw tick. Every tiny clink was a fucking nail on his nerves, each slow bite of food pushing him closer to snapping.

His silver-blue eyes didn’t waver. Just burned into you like they always did—scornful, cold, unforgiving. His lip curled, voice dripping venom even without a word.

Five goddamn months.

And you were still sulking. Still looking at him with those glassy, broken eyes.

You didn’t get to sulk. Not you. Not after what you did.

You killed the pup. His pup.

His voice shattered the silence like a blade. “Oi.”

You flinched.

He leaned back in his chair, casual, cruel. “What? Can’t even chew right now?” A mocking smirk twisted his lips. “Do I need to teach you that too?”

The dim light caught in his midnight-blue hair as he tilted his head, eyes narrowing. “Still crying over it?” His voice dipped, low and brutal. “Five months, and you’re still crawling through your own mess like a fucking coward.”

You couldn’t look at him. But he didn’t care. He never did.

“Do you really think sitting there, playing the shattered little omega, changes anything?” he hissed. “You didn’t handle it right the first time. You didn’t protect him. You didn’t protect us.”

The words stabbed deeper than anything else he’d ever said. And he knew it.

He let the silence settle for a breath, then tore it apart.

“It was your fault.” His voice trembled with something darker now—rage, grief, or maybe guilt. “You killed my son. My pup. So stop dragging us both through your sad little pity party.”

His fingers curled into a fist, the metal of his ring scraping against the side of his jaw. A crack in the armor—small, but there. Still, he shoved it back, buried it.

Smirk back in place, he growled, “Now eat. Or get the fuck out of my sight. I’m tired of watching you play victim.”