"When I woke, it wasn't my friend or my rival waiting. It was him."
The first thing I registered wasn't the pale morning light filtering through tall infirmary windows, or the rough scratch of starched linen against my skin. It was the scent-rich and complex and achingly familiar.
Not the sterile tang of healing herbs and disinfectant that typically clung to Crescent Hollow's medical wing like an unwelcome shroud, but something that pulled at my chest with the inevitability of gravity. Smoke and earth, winter storms held in check, threaded with something warm and indefinably masculine that made my wolf stir restlessly beneath my skin.
I fought my way back to consciousness slowly, groaning softly as my body protested the simple act of existing. My lashes felt heavy against my cheeks, weighted down by exhaustion that seemed to have seeped into my very bones. Every breath came shallow and careful, as if deeper inhalation might shatter something fragile inside my chest.
When my eyes finally fluttered open, the vaulted ceiling of the Academy's infirmary swam into focus above me. Stone arches stretched overhead, carved with protective symbols that were supposed to promote healing but mostly just made the space feel oppressive. My body ached in ways that had nothing to do with physical injury-a bone-deep weariness that spoke of supernatural forces stretched beyond their limits.
But the mate bond, I realized with surprise, no longer throbbed with the sharp agony that had driven me into unconsciousness. Instead, it pulsed with a gentler rhythm, like a wound that had finally stopped bleeding even if it hadn't begun to heal.
And then I saw him.
Darius Fenrir sat in a wooden chair that had been pulled close enough to my narrow infirmary bed that he could reach out and touch me if he chose. His posture was rigid as carved marble, broad shoulders held in a line so straight it spoke of military discipline, but his large hands were clasped together in his lap as if that was the only thing keeping him from reaching for me.
Dark shadows rimmed his eyes like bruises, exhaustion written in every sharp line of his aristocratic features. His usually immaculate appearance was disheveled-dark hair mussed as if he'd been running his fingers through it, training clothes wrinkled and stained with sand from the disastrous sparring match. Yet his gaze never wavered from mine, burning with an intensity that seemed to pierce straight through to my soul.
My breath caught in my throat like a small animal trapped in a cage.
"Why are you here?" The words came out as barely more than a rasp, my voice rough from whatever supernatural trauma had knocked me unconscious.
He didn't answer immediately, and I watched his jaw work as if he were physically wrestling with words that refused to be spoken. His chest rose and fell in the measured rhythm of someone fighting for control, and I caught the faintest tremor in his hands before he pressed them harder together.
When he finally spoke, his voice was pitched so low I had to strain my enhanced hearing to catch it. "I can't stay away."
The confession hit me with more devastating force than any physical blow I'd ever taken in the Academy's training rings. My wolf surged instantly to the surface, pressing against the boundaries of my human skin with desperate hope, clawing to close the distance between us. Heat spread through my chest like wildfire, filling hollow spaces I had forced empty through sheer stubborn will.
But my wounded pride reacted just as quickly, snapping back with the reflexive cruelty of something that had been hurt too many times. I forced my gaze away from his face, focusing instead on the pale stone wall across from my bed as I bit down hard against the treacherous sting of hope.
"You made your choice." My voice came out sharper than my battered body felt capable of producing, each word edged with the kind of bitter steel that could cut both ways. "You rejected me in front of everyone. Remember?"
Heavy silence pressed between us like a physical weight, thick with all the things we couldn't or wouldn't say to each other. I heard him shift in his chair, the wood creaking softly under his substantial frame, and caught the sound of his knuckles cracking as his fists clenched tighter in his lap.
"That doesn't change what's here." His voice was rough as gravel, and from the corner of my eye I saw his hand lift slightly to press against his chest, directly over his heart. "The bond doesn't care what I say out loud. It doesn't care about pride or politics or what's supposed to be proper."
My traitorous heart stuttered in its rhythm, hope and hurt warring for dominance inside my chest. Part of me wanted to demand more, to force him to admit all the things his Alpha pride refused to let him voice. To make him say the words that might actually heal the wounds his rejection had carved into my soul.
But I swallowed the desperate ache, sealing my lips with iron determination. I wouldn't beg for scraps of affection from someone who'd already made it clear I wasn't worthy of the full meal.
I turned back to meet his burning gaze, keeping my expression steady despite the tremor threatening to shake me apart from the inside. "Then suffer with it. The same way I do."
His dark eyes flared with golden fire, his wolf pressing close enough to the surface that I could see the exact moment it recognized the challenge in my words. But instead of lashing back with the cutting remarks I'd expected, he surprised me by leaning forward in his chair. His voice grew rougher, frayed at the edges like fabric that had been stretched too thin.
"You think I don't suffer already?" The words carried the weight of sleepless nights and battles fought against his own nature. "You think watching you walk away doesn't tear me apart? That seeing you with Gideon doesn't make my wolf howl for blood?"
The air between us crackled with electric tension, charged with all the desire and desperation we'd been trying so hard to contain. My wolf whined deep in my chest, every instinct screaming at me to reach for him, to bridge the impossible distance between us with touch and acceptance and forgiveness.
But I curled my fingers tight in the rough infirmary blanket instead, using the bite of coarse fabric against my palms to anchor myself to reality. I wouldn't yield to the pull of the mate bond, wouldn't let myself be swept away by pretty words that might mean nothing when morning came and his pride reasserted itself.
The moment stretched taut as a bowstring between us, filled with the kind of raw honesty that could either heal or destroy everything in its path.
Then the tension shattered completely, broken not by words or confessions or the desperate collision of two souls recognizing their other half, but by the sharp sound of the infirmary door slamming open with enough force to make the hinges protest.
Gideon Wicke strode into the sterile room with predatory grace, but his trademark smirk was conspicuously absent from his sharp features. His amber eyes locked instantly onto Darius with laser focus, and I could see his jaw tighten as fury rolled off him in waves that made the air itself feel dangerous.
When he spoke, his voice carried enough menace to make weaker wolves cower. "Get away from her."
The command hung in the air between the three of us like a lit fuse, promising an explosion that would consume everything in its path.