Chapter 14
Val's POV
Did I overthink it, or did my chest actually tighten when I saw Hazel lying motionless on the cold floor?
For a terrifying second, I thought I had lost her.
I crouched down, placing my palm gently against her nose. My hand trembled, though I forced it to stay steady. No breath. My world froze.
"Sir… I—" Henry's nervous voice broke in.
"Increase the maids' and servants' salaries," I cut him off sharply, my voice cold as steel. "But on one condition—they will work from six a.m. to eight p.m. No more of this leisure from three to six." My gaze darkened, rage pressing against my temples. "And call that wretched doctor. If he dares delay, if Hazel truly dies, I'll make sure he has no generation left—before or after him."
Henry paled instantly and bowed away, knowing better than to argue.
I gathered Hazel into my arms, her body limp against me. The heat radiating from her skin was unbearable. My throat constricted painfully, but a strange relief flickered inside me. Heat meant life. Cold meant death. And she wasn't cold yet.
Still… something inside me unraveled.
My existence has always been abnormal—shadowless, heartless, a hollow vessel wrapped in human skin. But in that moment, when her lashes lay still against her pale cheeks, I thought my chest had beat. Just once. It was faint, fleeting… but real.
Could she be the cure to what I am?
Watching her lie there unmoving, not taunting me with her words, not provoking me with her stubbornness, I felt something hollow open inside me. Was this what loss tasted like? Bitter, sharp, and impossible to swallow.
I stood rooted, utterly confused. Should I try chest compressions? Should I pour water over her? I never panicked. I never feared. But now, I was lost.
When the doctor rushed in, I felt relief claw its way through me. For once, I stepped back, granting him space. My eyes didn't leave Hazel as he examined her pulse, her temperature, and began tepid sponging to cool her fever.
Minutes dragged like hours.
And then—her lashes trembled. Slowly, her eyes fluttered open.
My chest loosened, the suffocating weight lifting. For a fraction of a second, I swore I felt a faint thump inside me, a phantom heartbeat. But it vanished as quickly as it came, leaving me empty once more—back to square one, the same shadowless, heartless existence I've always known.
Annoyance and confusion battled in me. And then she looked at me.
Her gaze wasn't pitiful, like the way omegas looked at alphas. It wasn't seductive, like women trying to ensnare a man. Nor was it grateful, though I had carried her back myself.
Her eyes burned with inquiry… and annoyance.
And when her lips parted, though her voice was barely a whisper, I heard her as if she screamed.
"I don't want it."
Did she mean the cramps? Her fertility? Me? I clenched my jaw, frustration pounding through my skull. This woman was incomprehensible. One moment I thought I could read her, the next she turned into a stranger I could never unravel.
Her phone vibrated in my pocket. I hadn't returned it since her fainting. Glancing at the caller ID, my eyes narrowed.
Francis Moore.
The name was unfamiliar, but my instincts sharpened instantly. I didn't like it. I didn't like him. I didn't like anyone daring to appear in her life. My gaze hardened until the screen dimmed.
When I looked up again, I caught sight of the doctor's hand lingering on Hazel's wrist.
I snapped.
A violent wave of possessiveness surged through me. My glare was sharp enough to slit his throat. He stiffened, his eyes flickering nervously as sweat dampened his temple. He pulled his hand away at once, smiling awkwardly, masking the fear trembling beneath his skin. But even then, I saw it—the glimmer of triumph in his expression.
The fool had discovered something and planned to tell my mother. Let him. She always meddled.
I no longer cared.
Stepping back into the room, I focused only on Hazel. She glared at me once before turning her face away, dismissing me as if I didn't exist.
What did I do wrong? Why did she look at me like that?
Her phone vibrated again. This time, she snatched it the moment I handed it over. My chest tightened, irritation simmering beneath my skin. She stared at the caller ID, sneered, and—without hesitation—switched it off.
I blinked. Puzzled. So she doesn't want him either…?
"Your phone," she said softly, her voice low and warm, almost teasing.
I didn't hand it over immediately. Instead, I studied her, searching for her intent. Was this another ploy to catch my attention? If it was, then she had succeeded.
Finally, I gave her the phone.
She unlocked it easily, scrolling without hesitation. I never used a password. Why should I? No one dared touch my things.
But she did. Boldly.
Connecting to the house Wi-Fi, she ignored me entirely and indulged herself in watching football.
I sank into the cushion across from her, my posture lazy, my legs crossed but my eyes never left her. Football? I frowned. Do girls even like football?
She was enduring pain—I could see it in the tight lines around her eyes, the way she shifted uncomfortably—but instead of lying down, she distracted herself with something else. Her spirit was infuriating. And yet… it drew me in.
My gaze slid past her, to where her own phone lay switched off on the table. A strange comfort flickered inside me.
For reasons I couldn't explain, I preferred her using my phone.
What was this feeling? This strange pull, this restless need?
It was as if my body was no longer my own, as if something deep inside me was bending to her presence, reshaping me entirely.
Was she changing me?
Especially the part of me I thought was untouchable—my cold, merciless nature.