As I slowly come to, a heavenly, caressing scent hits me like a lover’s whisper—smoky, rich, thick with sizzling fat and iron, though the heat has faded. Crispy bacon rests in lazy curls, its salt and smoke still clinging to the air, while plump sausages glisten, their spiced juices soaked into the platter. The scent is everywhere, wrapping around me like a teasing touch, warm and indulgent. It lingers, coaxing me closer, a slow, deliberate seduction of hunger and need. But I refuse its temptations.

  Unsure of where I am, I take in my surroundings. I notice a small bedside table with, flowers? How did I not smell those first? They were right in front of my face, I think.

  Where am I?, I ask myself. I notice that I’m also in a bed. One that I shouldn’t have been in.

  Where is Alpha? He will have my hide for sleeping in a bed. I get up and curl in the corner, scared of the punishment that is going to follow soon. I don’t know how, but whenever I do something I shouldn’t—and Alpha isn’t there—he somehow knows and finds me almost instantly.

  I hear voices outside my door—muffled, sharp-edged words laced with frustration. I curl in on myself as much as my aching ribs allow, pressing into the corner where the walls meet the cold floor, as if I could vanish into the shadows.

  The voices stop. A heartbeat later, the door swings open. Light spills into the room, cutting across the floor, and I squeeze my eyes shut, keeping just enough space to peek through my lashes.

  “Dammit, where is she?” The voice is sharp, edged with impatience. My body goes rigid at the sound. I know that voice.

  A beat of silence. Then—

  “Ah. There she is.”

  A gentle touch brushes my shoulder. I flinch. My breath catches in my throat. The hand withdraws almost immediately, as if burned by the tension coiling in my muscles.

  “I’m not going to hurt you. I was going to help you up so we could get some food in you.”

  His voice is gentle, careful. Like he’s afraid I might break.

  Why is he concerned for me? I’m a nobody. A burden. Something to be tolerated, at best.

  “No hungry.” My voice is barely a whisper, the words slurred from exhaustion and something deeper—something bruised and buried.

  He sighs quietly, not with irritation, but with something else. Sadness? Patience? I can’t tell. Then an arm, warm and steady, wraps around my waist. I flinch, instinct tightening my muscles—but it’s not rough. Not like him. There’s no force behind it, just a calm strength.

  Before I can protest again, I’m upright, tucked against a pillow. The blanket slips from my shoulder, and I shiver.

  “Please,” he says, crouching in front of me so we’re eye-level. His voice is low, coaxing. “Just eat a few pieces. Then I’ll leave you alone for a while.”

  I want to tell him to go. That I don’t need help. That I’m fine. But my body betrays me—tired, aching, hungry in a way I’ve learned to ignore.

  Then I see it: the bacon. He holds it out like a peace offering, the scent hitting me hard. Smoky. Salty. Warm. My stomach twists, confused—starved and hesitant all at once.

  My shoulders sag, the resistance melting from me like ice under sunlight. I open my mouth, just a little, just enough.

  He places the bacon gently on my tongue, careful not to touch me more than necessary. No sudden movements. No pressure. Just… care.

  I bite down slowly. The flavor spreads across my tongue—peppery and rich. I forgot food could taste this good. Or maybe I forgot what safe felt like.

  A small sigh escapes before I can stop it. My eyes slip closed, the exhaustion pulling at me again, heavier now.

  I don’t know what this man wants from me. I don’t trust him. But for one quiet moment, the war inside me pauses. And that bacon?

  It tastes a little like hope.

  He doesn’t say anything. Just stays kneeling there, watching me with a look I don’t understand. Not pity. Not disgust. Something quieter.

  After a moment, he stands, moves to the tray, and picks up another piece.

  “I’ll leave the food here,” he says, setting it gently on the table beside the bed. “You don’t have to eat it now. Just… try, okay?”

  I don’t respond. I don’t nod. But he doesn’t seem to need that. He just gives me one last glance before stepping out of the room, closing the door with a soft click.

  ~~~

  The silence left behind isn’t as heavy as before. It still presses on my chest—but now there’s a thread of warmth in it. Like maybe, just maybe, I’m not completely alone.

  Silence wraps around me like a blanket too heavy to move under. For a while, I just sit there, eyes half-lidded, breathing in the lingering scent of food and something else—him, maybe. Not in the way he used to linger. This scent isn’t sharp with control. It doesn’t cling to the air like a warning.

  I glance down at the plate. The bacon sits quietly, undemanding.

  The warmth in my belly is unfamiliar. Foreign, but not unpleasant.

  I lower myself slowly, letting my body ease back onto the mattress. The sheets are soft, the blanket warmer than I remember. There’s a dull ache in my limbs, like my bones are reminding me how long it’s been since I truly rested.

  Through the crack beneath the door, soft sounds drift in—murmured voices, the clink of dishes, a faint burst of laughter. I flinch at it, at the normalcy of it all. The world outside this room doesn’t match the one I’ve come from. It feels like I’ve been dropped into someone else’s life.

  I stare at the ceiling until my eyes blur.

  I don’t know how much time passes.

  But eventually, exhaustion wins.

  And for the first time in what feels like forever, I sleep without fear dragging me under.

  ~~~

  Warmth clings to me when I wake, the kind that only comes from sleeping too long. Disoriented, I blink against the soft light bleeding through the curtains. The sun has shifted—it’s later now. Maybe late afternoon. Maybe early evening.

  My body feels… heavy. Not in pain, exactly. Just worn down. Muscles tight from disuse, bones sore from rest that wasn’t deep enough.

  I shift beneath the covers and hiss softly at the ache in my side. There’s a dull throb near my ribs—a bruise, maybe more than one. Faint memories flicker at the edge of my thoughts, but I push them down before they can take shape.

  The plate of food is still beside the bed. The bacon is gone. I must’ve eaten more before falling asleep. I don’t remember doing it.

  For a moment, I just stare at the half-empty plate, surprised by myself.

  The air smells clean. Warm wood. Soap. Food. Not blood. Not fear.

  I slide the blanket back. Cool air brushes my skin and I tense instinctively, bracing for some barked command or sudden punishment.

  But nothing comes.

  The room stays quiet.

  Carefully, I swing one leg over the edge of the bed. My toes brush the floorboards. They’re cool. Solid. Real.

  I press my hand to the mattress and push myself upright, biting back a wince. The world tilts just slightly, a soft sway in my head, but it passes.

  I sit there for a long moment. Just breathing.

  Then I stand.

  My legs tremble, weak from too much stillness. But I don’t fall.

  There’s a small dresser across the room and a chair near the window. I shuffle forward, one small step at a time, until I reach the chair. My fingers grip the back of it like a lifeline.

  Outside the window, the sky is shifting into late-day gold. I catch the faintest glimpse of movement—someone walking through tall grass, a dog trailing behind. Or maybe it’s a wolf.

  I don’t know how long I stand there.

  But for the first time in what feels like forever, I’m not lying down.

  I’m not taking orders.

  I’m not begging.

  I’m standing.

  ~~~

  The door creaks.

  I flinch before I even turn my head, heart skipping in that old, familiar panic. But it’s not a man stepping in. Not someone big.

  It’s a girl. Maybe fifteen. Her wild curls bounce slightly as she peeks through the doorway, eyes scanning the room like she isn’t sure if she’s supposed to be here. She’s hugging something to her chest—blanket? Clothes?

  When her eyes land on me, she lights up.

  “Oh! You’re up!”

  I say nothing. My fingers tighten on the back of the chair. My legs are shaking, and my side throbs in protest, but I stay standing. I don’t know how to act around someone so… normal.

  She steps in a little more, tentative but not afraid. “I—I wasn’t gonna wake you or anything. I just thought you might want something clean to wear. And maybe a comb? Um… your hair looks like it’s fighting for its life.”

  She grins, but her voice wobbles. Nervous energy. I don’t smile back. I wouldn’t even know how.

  Then the room tilts.

  My knees give out before I can stop them. Pain lances through my ribs—sharp, hot—and everything blurs.

  A sound escapes me before I can bite it back. A whimper, small and pathetic. I brace for the hit that never comes.

  “Wait—wait! I’ve got you!”

  Hands catch me. Not rough. Not forceful. Just… there.

  The girl slips under my arm, supporting me like she’s done it before. One hand at my back, the other on my arm. She doesn’t grab my ribs. She doesn’t touch the bruises.

  She knows.

  “You’re okay,” she whispers, voice shaky but calm. “I’ve got you.”

  I blink, disoriented, and stare at her. Her face is flushed with the effort, but she’s focused. She doesn’t look disgusted by me. She doesn’t recoil.

  She helps me back toward the bed in careful steps, like I’m something fragile. Something worth keeping upright.

  “You shouldn’t be standing yet,” she says, more to herself than to me. “That’s what Eli said. That your body needs time.”

  Eli? The man from earlier? I blink, my voice hoarse when I ask, “Eli? The man from earlier?”

  Kira nods, her expression softening. “Yeah. He’s the one who put you in this room. He… he’s usually the one who looks after the injured ones.”

  I don’t know why, but the answer feels like a small thread of something to hold on to. Like maybe there’s a reason behind all of this. A purpose.

  I don’t say anything more. Just let her guide me back to the bed like I’m made of glass. My pride flares, ugly and sore, but I shove it down.

  I don’t say anything. Just let her guide me back to the bed like I’m made of glass. My pride flares, ugly and sore, but I shove it down.

  She sets the bundle—clothes, I think—on the edge of the mattress and steps back.

  “I’m Kira,” she says, voice softer now. “You don’t have to talk. I just thought… maybe you wouldn’t mind not being alone.”

  Then she sits cross-legged on the floor, not looking directly at me. Close, but not crowding. Just there.

  I stare at her for a long moment.

  And I don’t tell her to leave.

  ~~~

  She settles me back on the bed, the softness of the sheets beneath me a stark contrast to the harshness I’m used to. Kira steps back, but her eyes don’t leave me. She fidgets with the hem of her shirt, as if unsure what to do next. Her curiosity is palpable, but there’s something else there too—concern, maybe?

  After a beat, she speaks again, her voice hesitant.

  “Are you… are you alright?”

  I stare at her for a long moment. The question is simple, but it feels heavy, like it’s been sitting in the air for too long.

  Am I alright?

  I open my mouth, but no answer comes. The words I want to say are tangled up in places I don’t dare touch.

  So, instead, I give her a small nod. It’s the only answer I can give.

  Her eyes search mine for a second, like she’s trying to see if the answer is true. I don’t know what she’s looking for. But she doesn’t press.

  She sits back down on the floor again, her gaze drifting to the bundle of clothes she brought. She picks it up and folds it neatly before setting it aside.

  “I can stay, if you want,” she says, almost shyly. “I don’t have to go right away. I—I just wanted to help.”

  I don’t know what to make of her offer. But the idea of being alone again… that feels worse than her company.

  I look at her, trying to understand this girl who’s offering me something I’m not sure how to take.

  “You’re not afraid of me?” The question slips out before I can stop it.

  Kira blinks, surprised, before shaking her head. “Why would I be afraid of you?”

  “Because of what I am,” I say, my voice quieter now. It’s hard to speak it out loud, but I need to. I need her to understand.

  She blinks again, her expression softening. “You’re just a person. Like me. You don’t… look any different.”

  Just a person.

  I swallow hard, the lump in my throat threatening to choke me. She doesn’t get it. She doesn’t know.

  But she doesn’t push me further. She just sits there, patient, as if waiting for me to let the walls down on my own.

  For a long moment, there’s nothing but the sound of my breathing.

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  Finally, she glances back at me, her voice tentative but kind. “I could bring you some tea later, if you want. It’s… calming.”

  Tea. The word feels foreign in my mouth, like it belongs to someone else’s world. But the thought of warmth, something soothing… I almost want to say yes.

  But instead, I simply nod again. I don’t trust myself to speak.

  And she seems okay with that. She gets up and quietly sets the bundle of clothes next to the bed.

  “I’ll be right back,” she says, almost in a whisper. “I’ll make the tea. You just… rest.”

  ~~~

  The door closes softly behind her, and I’m alone again. But it’s different this time. A small thread of warmth stays with me, fragile but real.

  The room settles into silence again.

  I don’t know how long I sit there, staring at the door Kira just left through. The faint smell of food still lingers in the air, mixing with the soft scent of freshly washed sheets. But something else is there now too—something warm and unfamiliar, like the promise of something safe.

  I can almost feel it, as if it’s reaching out to me. But I keep my guard up, just in case it’s an illusion.

  I glance down at the clothes she brought. A simple, soft shirt and loose pants. They’re nothing fancy, but they’re clean. And that feels like an indulgence.

  I don’t move to touch them yet.

  Minutes slip by like hours, and I’m still trapped in my own head, trying to make sense of it all. The quiet. The gentleness. Kira’s kindness—it’s different. It’s not something I’m used to.

  The door creaks open again, and I look up just in time to see Kira stepping back inside, carefully balancing a cup of steaming tea in her hands.

  “I hope you don’t mind,” she says, her voice light but unsure. “I wasn’t sure how much you’d want, so I made a little extra.”

  I just watch her, not knowing what to say.

  She sets the cup on the table beside the bed, the steam curling up into the air. Then she retreats a few steps back, not quite leaving me alone, but also not crowding me.

  “Do you want me to leave it here?” she asks, sounding tentative. “Or… do you want some now?”

  I don’t respond right away. The tea smells good, like herbs and warmth. Like something my body is begging for without realizing it.

  I reach for it, my fingers brushing against the warm porcelain, and lift it to my lips. The liquid is smooth, gentle on my throat. It slides down, soothing something inside me I hadn’t even noticed was tight.

  “I… thank you,” I mutter, the words feeling strange in my mouth. I don’t say them often. I don’t mean to say them, but they’re out before I can stop them.

  Kira’s eyes brighten, like she wasn’t expecting it. She smiles, a small, genuine thing. “Of course. I just… I want to help.”

  I take another sip, the warmth spreading through me, making the silence a little easier to handle.

  She doesn’t press for more conversation. She simply watches, a quiet presence in the room, waiting.

  For a while, I focus on the tea. On the warmth it brings.

  And for the first time since waking up, I don’t feel completely alone.

  The tea warms me in ways I didn’t know I needed. For a brief moment, I can forget the weight of everything. The pack. The Alpha. The wolf inside me.

  Kira sits quietly on the floor, her eyes flicking between me and the cup, like she’s waiting for something, but not sure what. I don’t know what she expects from me—she doesn’t push, doesn’t demand anything.

  But I feel it—the curiosity, the kindness. She’s watching me as if I’m not some broken thing to be fixed, but something… worthy.

  I don’t know how to process that.

  I take another sip, the warmth in my chest spreading deeper, soothing the ache that’s always there.

  After a while, Kira speaks again, her voice soft, like she’s trying to sound casual but it’s clear she’s unsure. “Do you want to talk? I mean… about what happened?”

  She looks down at her hands, shifting her feet, clearly embarrassed by the question. Her cheeks flush a little, and she quickly adds, “You don’t have to, though. I just—if you want to, I’m here.”

  I flinch, the words catching in my throat. I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to talk about anything.

  But I’m not sure I can hold it all inside for much longer.

  I glance at her, but the words are still tangled, and the lump in my throat makes it hard to speak. I open my mouth to say something—anything—but I just shake my head instead.

  Kira nods, her face softening with understanding. She doesn’t press, just sits there quietly, her hands folded in her lap, as though she’s offering me the space to breathe.

  I take another deep breath, trying to push back the emotions that threaten to break through. It’s enough for now. I don’t need to explain myself to her.

  For a while, the room remains still, the only sound the occasional creak of the house settling, the soft hum of my own breath.

  Finally, Kira stands, moving toward the door. She turns back with one last glance.

  “I’ll leave you to rest,” she says, her voice gentle. “But if you need anything—anything at all—I’m here. You’re not alone.”

  And just like that, she’s gone. The door clicks softly behind her, leaving me alone again in the quiet.

  But this time… it’s different.

  There’s something in the air. Something unspoken. I don’t know what it is, but it lingers, warm and soft, like the promise of something better.

  For the first time in a long time, I let myself believe it might be true.

  ~~~

  Kira’s hand is warm against mine as she helps me to my feet, and we move toward the door. The cool air outside is a sharp contrast to the warmth of the room, but it feels refreshing against my skin. We step outside, and the light hits me in a way that makes my body want to tense, but I fight it.

  Kira guides me down the path, her steps light and quick, and I follow, my legs still unsteady but determined. The sounds of the pack are faint at first—laughter, voices calling out, the shifting of feet on dirt. Then, the heavy thuds of combat reach my ears, and I realize we’re nearing the training area.

  The clearing opens up ahead of us, and I see the warriors sparring in the center. The Alpha Rouge is at the heart of it all, his movements sharp and fluid, as though he’s born to fight. The man sparring beside him, his tall frame lithe but strong, moves with the same intensity, his focus unwavering.

  I stop at the edge of the clearing, watching them. Something stirs inside me. I’ve seen this man before, his dark eyes intense, his posture so commanding it’s almost like he belongs in the center of the world. My pulse quickens in a way I can’t explain.

  Then, something changes.

  The wind shifts, and I feel the tug of something deep within me—the same tug I’ve felt before when he’s near. The man. My mate.

  No. This isn’t right.

  I try to convince myself it’s just some strange instinct, some part of me trying to fool myself into thinking this bond is real. But it feels too strong. Too real.

  I watch as his head snaps toward the edge of the clearing, his eyes narrowing in my direction. His nostrils flare, and I see it—his expression shifts from focus to confusion, and then panic.

  He’s caught my scent.

  Before I can even take another step, he’s moving. His muscles ripple beneath his skin as he rushes toward me, his movement predatory, yet somehow controlled. The warriors around him stop, their eyes flicking between the two of us in confusion. But he doesn’t care.

  Why would he care about me? I’m nothing.

  When he reaches me, his hands are gentle but urgent, like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he doesn’t touch me. He embraces me carefully, his face buried in my hair as he breathes in deeply.

  “Mate,” he says, his voice raw, almost desperate.

  I tense, my mind reeling. This can’t be happening. He can’t be mine. He doesn’t want me. He’s just… he’s just confused.

  His grip tightens just slightly, and I feel the tension in his body, the way his breath comes a little too fast. He pulls back just enough to look at me, his eyes wide with a mix of relief and concern. His gaze flickers over me, checking to make sure I’m real, that I’m truly here.

  But I can’t let him see me. I’m not worthy of this.

  I drop my gaze, unable to meet his eyes for too long. His concern—his care—it’s too much. He’s better than this. He deserves someone else, someone stronger, someone who isn’t broken.

  He brushes my cheek gently, his touch soft but insistent. “You’re… you’re alright?” he asks, his voice breaking with something I can’t quite place.

  I swallow, my throat dry. “I’m… I’m fine.” It’s a lie. I’m not fine. But it’s the best I can do.

  He shakes his head, his eyes filled with so much worry it makes my chest tighten. “You’re not fine. You’re not supposed to be alone. Not like this.”

  I don’t want him to see the cracks in me. I don’t want him to know the truth.

  “Please,” I whisper, stepping back slightly, trying to pull away from him. “You don’t have to do this. You can reject me. I won’t fight it.”

  His expression shifts, shock flashing across his face. “Reject you?” he murmurs, his voice barely a whisper. “I would never—”

  But it doesn’t matter. He should. He needs to. Because I’m nothing.

  “I’m not… I’m not what you need,” I manage, my voice barely holding steady. “You deserve more than this. More than someone like me.”

  I can feel the tears threatening to spill, but I won’t let them fall. I won’t show him how much his presence is unraveling me, how much I’ve convinced myself that I’m not worthy of this.

  He doesn’t answer right away. His hands remain on my arms, his touch a comforting weight, but his gaze is searching me, like he’s trying to understand me, trying to piece me together.

  “I don’t need more,” he finally says, his voice a low, rumbling promise. “I need you. Just you.”

  I don’t know how to respond to that. The world spins, my heart racing, but the words catch in my throat.

  I glance at Kira, standing a little behind us, watching the exchange with wide eyes. She looks between the two of us, and I can see her confusion, the questions rising in her gaze.

  But the man doesn’t care about anyone else right now. His focus is entirely on me, his hands never leaving my arms, his touch grounding me in a way that both soothes and terrifies me.

  “Come,” he says softly, his voice almost a plea. “Let me take you back inside. You shouldn’t be out here.”

  I can’t bring myself to move. I just stand there, caught between the heat of his touch and the coldness of the world I’m afraid to face.

  ~~~

  I stand frozen, caught between his presence and the truth I can’t escape. His hands are warm against my arms, but they’re not comforting. They’re a reminder—of everything I can’t have, everything I’m not worthy of. I want to pull away, to step back, to run from this, but the tug of him is undeniable, like a magnet pulling me closer.

  “You don’t have to do this,” I whisper again, the words trembling in my throat. I can’t keep asking him to reject me, but it’s all I can think. I can’t help myself. “Please… just let me go.”

  His fingers tighten, just enough to make it clear that he’s not letting me pull away. His gaze hardens, but there’s still the same concern in his eyes. “I’m not letting you go, Laika,” he says, his voice unwavering. “Not like this. Not when you’re clearly in pain.”

  I look away, my heart pounding against my ribs. Why is he doing this? He doesn’t owe me anything. I’m nothing.

  “I can’t be what you want,” I say, my voice breaking despite my best efforts. “I don’t even know who I am anymore. How could you possibly want me?”

  He steps closer, refusing to give me the space I crave. His presence is overwhelming, but there’s something else behind his eyes now—a fire, a refusal to give up on me. “You don’t have to be anything but yourself,” he says, his voice low but firm. “I want you as you are.”

  I shake my head, trying to step back, but he’s there, blocking my way. “I don’t deserve this,” I whisper, the words almost choking me. “You deserve someone better. Someone who’s whole, not… broken.”

  His expression hardens, his jaw clenched as if my words are physically painful to him. “I don’t care about your past. I don’t care about who you think you are or what you’ve been through. I care about you, Laika. Just you. I don’t need anyone else.”

  I try to pull away again, desperate to escape this weight, but he’s relentless. His hands catch my arms, his grip firm but not painful, and his voice grows sharper. “Stop fighting me. Stop trying to push me away. I’m not going anywhere.”

  “But I’m not what you need!” I snap, my voice rising. The panic inside me is starting to claw its way to the surface. “You deserve someone who’s… who’s strong, who doesn’t need to be fixed.”

  His hands tighten, but not in anger—in resolve. “I don’t need someone perfect, Laika. I need someone who’ll let me stand beside her. I need you. And I won’t let you push me away.” His voice cracks, just for a second, before he steadies it. “You think you’re broken, but I don’t see that. I see someone who’s been hurt, who’s been betrayed, who’s been alone for too long. And I see someone I care about. More than I should.”

  His words hit me like a punch to the gut. His honesty, his refusal to back down, makes something in my chest tighten painfully. I want to scream at him to leave, to go, to stop pretending that I’m worth any of this.

  “I’m not perfect,” I say again, my voice shaking. “I’m not even close. I’m not who you want.”

  “I don’t care about your imperfections,” he growls, his frustration barely hidden beneath the surface. “I care about you, Laika. I care about everything you’ve been through, and I care about who you are, even if you don’t see it yet.”

  I stare at him, my heart racing, my mind a mess of conflicting emotions. I can’t let him in. I can’t. But every word he says makes it harder to keep pushing him away.

  “You don’t understand,” I whisper, barely able to speak. “I’m not worth this. You’re not supposed to care about me.”

  His hands cup my face, forcing me to look at him. His gaze is unwavering, intense. “You don’t get it,” he says, his voice low and steady, like he’s speaking to me from a place of absolute certainty. “I’m not asking for permission to care. I’m telling you that I will. And you’re going to have to deal with it, because I’m not leaving. Not now. Not ever.”

  I open my mouth to argue, but the words stick in my throat. My chest tightens, and before I can stop myself, the tears I’ve been holding back start to spill over.

  He wipes them away gently with his thumb, his touch soft, almost reverent. “Let me in, Laika. Let me be there for you. You don’t have to do this alone.”

  For a long moment, I can’t move. His words swirl around me, but I can’t decide if I should let myself believe them. He’s so sure. So certain. But I’m not.

  I close my eyes, my breath shaky. “I don’t know how,” I admit quietly, the vulnerability slipping out before I can stop it. “I don’t know how to let you in.”

  “You don’t have to know,” he says, his voice softer now, almost like a promise. “You just have to let me try. You just have to trust me.”

  And for the first time, I let myself believe that maybe—just maybe—I don’t have to do this on my own.

  His presence is a weight I can’t escape, and, strangely, I don’t want to. His strong arms slip around me again, lifting me effortlessly as though I’m nothing more than a feather in his grasp. I tense at first, my mind still scrambling to find something, anything to argue with, to pull myself from his embrace. But the way he holds me—so carefully, so sure of what he’s doing—soothes the panic building in my chest.

  I don’t resist. I just let him carry me, my head resting against his shoulder, the steady thump of his heartbeat grounding me as we move through the pack’s quiet halls. The warmth of him presses into me, but it’s not overwhelming—just comforting, in a way I didn’t know I needed.

  ~~~

  When we reach the room, he gently lowers me onto the bed. My legs feel weak beneath me, and I hesitate, unsure of how to sit, how to exist in this space where the air is thick with unsaid things. I’m supposed to be alone. I’m supposed to be invisible. But he’s here, and it feels like everything I know is shifting.

  He sits down beside me, but he keeps his distance, just enough to let me breathe but still close enough that I feel the warmth of his body near mine. His hand rests on the bed between us, open, inviting. I want to reach for it, to take comfort in it, but I don’t.

  The silence stretches, heavy with unspoken words, until it feels like I might suffocate under the weight of it.

  Then, the door opens, and Kira steps inside, her eyes darting between me and him. She’s holding a small bowl of vegetable soup, the steam rising from it, filling the room with a faint, comforting scent.

  “I thought you might be hungry,” she says softly, her gaze lingering on me for a moment before it shifts to him. She looks nervous, uncertain, but she doesn’t hesitate. “It’s not much, but I figured… it might help.”

  I watch her as she carefully sets the bowl down on the nightstand beside me. The gesture is simple, but it makes something tight in my chest loosen just a little.

  “Thank you,” I whisper, my voice still raw from everything I’ve tried to push down, everything I’ve tried to hide. I don’t look up at her, don’t meet her eyes, but I feel the weight of her concern like a pressure in the room.

  Kira hesitates, her gaze flicking between him and me. “I’ll… I’ll leave you two alone,” she says quietly, as if she’s not sure if we want the company.

  I almost want to tell her to stay. But instead, I shake my head gently. “It’s fine,” I murmur, my throat tight. “Thank you.”

  Kira hesitates a moment longer, then turns and slips quietly out of the room, the door clicking softly behind her.

  I sit there for a long time, not touching the soup, not sure if I can eat just yet. He watches me, his eyes soft but full of something I can’t place.

  “You should eat,” he says after a while, his voice steady but filled with that quiet concern. “It’ll help.”

  I glance at the soup, then back at him. “I don’t feel hungry,” I admit, my voice quieter than I intend. It’s not that I’m not hungry—it’s just… too much. Everything feels too much.

  “I know.” He leans forward just slightly, his eyes never leaving mine. “But you need to take care of yourself, Laika. I can’t help you if you don’t let me.”

  His words settle in the space between us like a quiet plea, and something inside me stirs. I want to let him in. I want to believe that I can trust him, that I don’t have to fight this. But every part of me is still screaming to pull away, to protect myself.

  I finally reach for the bowl, my hands trembling slightly as I bring it to my lips. The soup is warm, the flavors simple but soothing. I take a slow sip, the warmth filling me in a way I didn’t realize I needed.

  He watches me the entire time, his presence unwavering, his gaze never faltering.

  When I finish the first few spoonfuls, I set the bowl back on the nightstand and finally allow myself to breathe. The tension in the room is still thick, but something between us has shifted. Maybe I haven’t let him fully in, but I don’t feel as alone as I did before.

  His fingers brush against mine, a light touch, just enough to make me feel something warm spread through me. He doesn’t speak, just sits quietly beside me, his presence solid and steady. And for once, it feels like maybe I don’t have to keep fighting against the current.

  I can’t let him in fully yet. But right now, this—this small, quiet moment—is enough.

  The quiet in the room wraps around us like a blanket, soft and gentle, but it presses against my chest all the same. I don’t know what I’m supposed to feel, don’t know if this is right—if any of this is right. My mind keeps returning to that quiet voice inside me, the one telling me I don’t deserve this—telling me to push him away, to protect myself.

  But his presence… it’s different. He’s different. And the longer I sit here, the more I feel like I might actually be able to breathe.

  His hand rests near mine, still open, waiting. I glance down at it, my pulse quickening, not from fear but from something else—a warmth I can’t quite place. I want to take it. I want to feel the strength of his touch, but I don’t.

  Instead, I turn my gaze toward the window. The evening light filters through, casting soft shadows on the floor. The room feels so still. The world feels so still.

  “I don’t know how to do this,” I whisper to no one in particular, my voice barely above a breath. The words hang in the air, fragile and vulnerable.

  “You don’t have to know,” he says quietly, his voice a steady comfort. “We’ll figure it out together.”

  I close my eyes at his words, the sincerity in them making something in me tremble. I don’t deserve him. I don’t deserve any of this. But for the first time, I wonder if it’s okay to let myself believe, even just for a moment, that I do.

  A light knock on the door breaks the stillness, and Kira’s voice floats in from the other side. “Is everything okay in there?”

  “Yeah,” I say, surprised at how steady my voice sounds. I don’t even recognize it. “We’re fine.”

  She pauses, and I hear her soft footsteps retreating down the hall, leaving the quiet once again to settle over us.

  I take a deep breath and reach out, just barely brushing my fingers against his. The touch is electric, sending a wave of warmth through me. I don’t pull away. I don’t retreat.

  For the first time in what feels like forever, I allow myself to be here. To exist in this space where I don’t have to fight. I don’t know what tomorrow will bring or if I’m strong enough to face it, but in this moment, I know I don’t have to face it alone.

  His fingers brush lightly against mine, a gentle touch that sends warmth rushing through me. I feel something stir deep inside, something I don’t know how to name. And it makes me brave enough to ask the question that’s been lingering in my mind, the one I’ve been avoiding.

  “What’s your name?” My voice is soft, almost hesitant, but I can’t help myself.

  He doesn’t hesitate. “Apolloh.”

  I test the name in my mind. Apolloh. It fits him—strong, commanding, yet somehow gentle. I say it out loud, just to hear it again.

  “Apolloh.” The name feels right, like it’s meant to be on my lips. I don’t know why I’ve been so afraid to ask, why I’ve been so afraid to know him fully. But now it’s out there, and it doesn’t feel as heavy as I thought it would.

  He watches me with a quiet smile, almost as if I’ve passed some unspoken test. There’s a softness in his gaze, and his fingers brush mine once more.

  “Your name suits you,” I murmur, almost to myself, surprised at how natural the words feel.

  He smiles, just a little, and the expression warms something inside me. “And yours suits you, Laika.”

  I want to argue, to say I don’t deserve this, don’t deserve him, but the words get stuck in my throat. Instead, I stay silent, the simple truth hanging in the air between us. For once, I don’t feel the need to run, to protect myself from this connection that’s pulling me in.

  And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough.