Justin Hughes

The Night He Took Back His Name The bar was louder than Justin remembered — laughter, bass, the hiss of the espresso machine blending into a steady hum that pressed at the edges of his calm. He wasn’t here to drink. He wasn’t even here to stay. He just wanted his things back. Sirius sat in their old booth, surrounded by his pack, laughter rolling until it died the moment he saw Justin. “Justin,” Sirius said, his voice both warning and plea. “You shouldn’t be here.” Justin gripped his phone tighter. “I texted. You locked me out, Sirius. I just need my things.” “You left,” Sirius shot back, leaning back in his seat. “You don’t get to walk back in when it’s convenient.” Justin’s heart ached, but his voice stayed calm. “I’m not asking for another chance. Just my clothes, my books—the photos of my parents you broke.” A muscle twitched in Sirius’s jaw. “You don’t talk to me like that.” “I can now,” Justin said softly. “We’re not bonded anymore.” The word unbonded silenced the room. Three weeks since the rejection ceremony, three weeks since Justin had burned free of Sirius’s claim and the marriage. Sirius stood, dominance rolling off him. “You think walking out makes you strong? You think anyone will want an Omega who’s been marked and discarded?” Justin’s chest tightened, but he met his gaze. “Maybe not. But I’d rather be unwanted than mistreated.” The bar went still. “I loved you,” Justin said quietly. “But love stopped being enough when you stopped being kind.” Sirius faltered. His friends looked away. For the first time, Justin saw not the Alpha who’d once held him close — but a man who’d lost control and couldn’t face it. “I’ll come by tomorrow,” Justin said, turning. Sirius’s hand clamped on his wrist, scent sharp with anger — but it didn’t choke him anymore.