Nahla
The wolf's jaws closed around her leg again.
She felt the teeth sink in, felt the wet crunch of bone, heard her own scream ripping out of her throat. The forest tilted. Blood splashed over the dirt in a thick, hot rush. The rogue's one good eye gleamed, hungry and bright, as it dragged her toward the shadows.
She clawed at the ground. Her fingers slipped in mud and red.
"Please," she choked. "Please, somebody..."
The wolf lowered its head. She saw the rotten edge of its teeth, smelled decay and old blood.
Then something hit it from the side.
A brown shape, all fur and muscle and rage, slammed into the rogue. They tumbled away in a tangle of snarls and claws. The world shook.
Nahla tried to move. Tried to crawl. Her leg would not respond. Her hands closed around a piece of wood, slick and sharp. A weapon. A useless stick. She did not know.
A howl tore through the trees. A crack. A thud.
Silence.
Something was coming back for her.
Her breath shortened. Her vision dimmed.
She lifted the stick and whispered, "I do not want to die."
The forest leaned in, waiting.
A shadow stepped out of the dark.
She saw eyes like molten amber, looking straight into her, as if whatever was inside her chest was something he already knew.
Then the darkness took her again.
Nahla woke with a sharp inhale.
Her heart hammered against her ribs like it was trying to break free. Sweat cooled on her skin. For a moment she did not know where she was. Forest, night, blood, jaws. The images clung to her like cobwebs.
Then the ceiling came into focus.
Rough wooden beams. A faint crack running along one plank. The glow of a lantern filling the room with soft gold.
The cabin.
Not the road. Not the forest. Not the rogue.
The cabin that smelled of woodsmoke and wolf and herbs.
She let out a slow breath and tried to relax her fingers. They were clenched in the fur blanket, knuckles white. She forced them to loosen.
"Back with me?"
Lira's voice drifted over from her left, warm and steady.
Nahla turned her head carefully. Lira sat in her usual place beside the bed, a low stool pulled close, a clay bowl and folded cloth on her lap. The healer's dark braids were tied up today, silver-tipped ends tucked away. The skin under her eyes looked a little shadowed.
"How long was I asleep?" Nahla croaked.
"A few hours," Lira replied. "You drift in and out. That is normal. Your body is trying to repair itself without magic. It is exhausting work."
Nahla grimaced. "Feels like it."
Lira dipped the cloth into the bowl. The scent of herbs and something sharp, almost like pine and mint together, rose into the air.
"Let me see your leg," Lira said.
Nahla braced herself as the blankets were drawn back. Cool air swept over her skin. She forced her eyes to stay open, to look.
Her thigh was wrapped tight in clean bandages, the white stained through with darker patches where salve had seeped. She remembered what it had looked like before, in brief, awful flashes. Torn. Open. Red.
She swallowed hard.
Lira worked with efficient hands, unwrapping the outer layer. "The wound is closing," she said quietly. "Slowly, but it is closing. No rot. That is good."
"Does it still look... bad?" Nahla asked, voice thin.
Lira considered. "It looks like something tried to eat you. But you are still here. That is what matters."
A shaky laugh escaped Nahla. "Great. Love that for me."
Lira's mouth curled. "Humor is a good sign. Lean back. This will sting."
The cloth pressed to her skin. Fire licked along the edges of the wound. Nahla hissed, fingers digging into the blankets again. The urge to pull away was strong, but Lira's hand was firm and gentle all at once.
"It could have been worse," the healer murmured. "If the rogue had torn higher, he would have taken the artery. You would have died before our Alpha reached you."
Nahla stared at the ceiling again. The word Alpha still felt like something from a story, not something that belonged to the man who had carried her here. Yet every time she thought of him, she saw that flash of amber, that hard set to his jaw, the way the room changed when he was inside it.
"How many days has it been?" she asked.
"Four," Lira said.
Four.
It felt like one very long night and also a lifetime.
"How long," Nahla added quietly, "until I can walk?"
Lira finished binding the wound again and sat back. "Weeks," she said. "Maybe months, before you are steady. Humans do not heal as we do. You have no magic in your blood to help you, only your own body and time."
Nahla's stomach dipped. "Months."
"You are lucky to have months," Lira said softly. "Do not forget that part."
Nahla nodded, throat tight. She knew the healer was right. She also knew that she could not imagine staying in this cabin, on this bed, for weeks and months and however long it took.
"Thank you."
"It is my duty," Lira replied. "But it is also what any decent wolf would do." She paused. "May I ask your name now that you are awake fully?"
Nahla blinked. "I never told you?"
"You were barely conscious."
"Nahla," she whispered. "Nahla Calder."
Lira smiled softly. "Then welcome, Nahla. Even under difficult circumstances."
Nahla tried to smile back, but her chest was too tight with exhaustion. Lira helped her sit up a little and adjusted the blankets.
She watched Lira put away the cloth, pour the used water into a bucket. The cabin was quiet aside from their breathing and the pop of the fire. The couch on the far wall sat empty, a folded blanket on one end. A pair of boots rested neatly beside it. The desk near the window was stacked with maps and papers, edges curling.
It all felt like someone's life frozen mid-step.
"Where is he?" Nahla asked before she could stop herself.
Lira looked over her shoulder. "Riven?"
The name slid through the room like a low sound.
Nahla swallowed. "I did not see him when I woke up this time."
"He is with his warriors," Lira replied. "The rogue that attacked you is dead, but there might be others. Patrols have been doubled. The Council is unsettled. Humans get nervous when blood spills near their borders. Wolves get nervous when rogues cross ours."
"Has anyone told them I am here?" Nahla asked.
"Your humans?" Lira shook her head. "Not yet. There are... procedures. Politics. Riven will not risk opening contact until he knows whether you will live. He will not give them a corpse to mourn."
Something cold and heavy settled in her chest. Her family must have realized she never arrived. Her car would be missing. Her phone was probably shattered in the wreckage. She pictured Mari pacing the kitchen, her mother crying into one of those embroidered handkerchiefs she loved, her father's face set in that hard, angry line she knew too well.
"They must think I am dead," she whispered.
"They think you are missing," Lira said. "There is a difference. Missing keeps hope alive."
Nahla closed her eyes for a moment. It did not help. Images of home flickered behind her eyelids. It's manicured lawns and perfect houses and small-town gossip. Her sister's children, all bright eyes and sticky fingers, chattering about school. Her mother adjusting the collar of Nahla's shirt with a frown. Her father cleaning his old rifle in the garage, silver bullets lined up in precise rows.
Wolf stories told like hunting legends.
Her chest ached.
Nahla let out a shaky breath. "Did you find my phone in the wreck?"
Lira hesitated, then shook her head. "No. Only scraps of metal and shattered glass."
A hollow dread settled in Nahla's stomach. Anything that tied her to her world was gone. Nahla let out a helpless sound. "So there is nothing I can do."
"For now." Lira's gaze softened. "When you are strong enough to be moved, we will send a message. Riven is not cruel, Nahla. He is cautious. There is a difference."
She did not know if she believed that. She did know that at night, when the lanterns were turned low and the cabin quieted, she heard the door open. Boots on wood. The soft rustle of fabric. The creak of the couch as someone lay down.
He thought she was asleep.
She never was, not entirely.
His scent would slowly fill the room, cedar and cold air and something wild she could not name. It settled over her like a second blanket. She listened to his breathing, deep and even, and counted the beats until her own breaths matched his.
She would never say that out loud. Not to Lira. Not to him. Not to anyone.
But his presence made the darkness feel less sharp.
And that scared her more than the silence had.
"Do you need the bathroom before I leave?"
Heat rushed to Nahla's cheeks, but she nodded. Moving alone was impossible.
Lira slipped an arm around her carefully, lifting her weight without strain. Nahla tried not to cry at the humiliating slow walk across the cabin, leaning against the healer the whole way.
They managed. The pain was sharp, but not unbearable. Lira kept her steady.
When she was back in bed, Nahla's breaths were uneven, but she felt strangely lighter. Being cared for so patiently was almost foreign.
After settling her, Lira brushed a stray curl from Nahla's forehead. "Rest. I will return later."
The healer left.
Silence filled the space again.
—
The days blurred together.
Wakefulness in brief, aching pockets.
Lira appeared every morning with fresh water and salves and bandages. She cleaned Nahla's wound, checked her fever with a cool palm to her forehead, coaxed her to drink bitter teas that helped with the pain. She always brought food. Sometimes broth, sometimes stewed meat and soft bread, sometimes slices of something like fruit that tasted sharper and sweeter than anything from the city.
"Wild apples," she said one day when Nahla asked. "They grow near the river. The pups sneak them when they are supposed to be training."
Nahla tried to imagine wolf children. Small bodies with too-big eyes, tripping over their own feet, stealing apples. The image did not match the stories she had grown up with at all.
Between Lira's visits, the cabin belonged to her and her thoughts.
She learned the pattern of the light through the window. Early morning was pale and blue, spilling in as a thin rectangle that crept across the floor. Midday burned hotter, turning the fur on the rug into bright strips. Afternoons brought shadows from the trees outside, branches swaying lazily, leaves whispering things she could not hear.
She traced the same knot in the ceiling beam over and over. She memorized the uneven line in the stone hearth. She counted how many steps it might take from the bed to the door, from the door to the table, from the table to the couch.
She could not take any of them. Not yet.
She thought of her old life when the room got too quiet.
Of her older sister's perfect life, all clean edges and comfortable routines. Of her mother's sharp eyes. Of her father's silence whenever wolves appeared in the news.
She wondered if anyone in that town could imagine her here, in the heart of a sanctuary, leg wrapped in bandages, being fed and treated by wolves.
She wondered if they would still call these people monsters if they could see how carefully Lira cleaned her wounds, how someone stacked extra wood for the fire each evening, how there was always a cup of water within reach when she woke.
At night, the howls began.
Far away at first, a thin sound on the wind. Then closer, layered. Different voices, different pitches. Some short and sharp, some low and drawn out. It was not chaotic. There was a rhythm to it, like a conversation in a language made only of sound and air.
On the seventh night, as she lay pretending to be asleep, she heard the door open.
A pause. Boots on wood. The soft thud of something being set down. Then the quiet creak of the couch as weight settled onto it.
She kept her breathing even, eyes closed.
There was a long silence. She could feel his gaze on her like a physical thing. The tiny hairs on her arms rose.
Then blankets shifted on the couch. A low breath. The stillness of someone who had chosen not to move again for a while.
She stared at the inside of her eyelids and carefully did not think the words safe, or comfort, or wanted.
"Her mind will unravel if you keep her shut away in here."
Nahla startled.
The words floated in from outside, clear through the thin cabin wall. Lira's voice, edged in dry humor and something firmer.
She must have fallen asleep again, then drifted close enough to wakefulness to catch the conversation. The lantern light was softer now, more orange than gold. Evening.
She shifted carefully, wincing as her leg protested. If she turned her head, she could see the door. It was slightly ajar, a slice of forest visible beyond the frame. Shapes moved just out of sight.
A low male voice answered Lira. Riven.
"She can barely stand," he said. "Taking her outside is not wise."
"Keeping her in here with only her thoughts is less wise," Lira shot back. "Humans are not built for this kind of confinement. Their bodies are fragile, yes, but their minds are even worse."
Nahla grimaced. Rude, but not wrong.
"She needs rest, not fresh air," Riven said. "The more she moves, the slower she heals."
"She will rest better when she remembers the world is larger than four walls," Lira replied. "You told me yourself her fever is gone. Her wound is no longer open. The risk is lower now. Let her sit. Let her see the sky."
A pause.
The sound of someone exhaling. Riven, she thought. It was the same sound she had heard in the dark when he believed her sleeping. A quiet, frustrated breath, like he was always one step from growling.
"It is not safe," he said. "The pack is already restless. They do not understand why their Alpha brought a human into our heart. Some are angry enough without seeing her in the open."
"So speak to them," Lira said. "You are their Alpha. Make them understand. Or at least make them behave."
Another pause.
"Also," Lira added, softer now, "she is afraid. She hides it well, but it is there. She asks about her family. She apologizes for taking up space in your bed. She notices that you sleep on your couch like a guest in your own home."
Nahla's face heated. She had not realized Lira noticed her noticing.
"She will go mad if all she has is me and the pattern on the ceiling," Lira continued. "She needs distraction. Company. Something to do other than count the ways this could all end badly."
"She talks to you enough," Riven said.
"She needs you to talk back," Lira answered. "Not as an Alpha to a political problem. As a person to another person. Even if she is human."
Nahla held her breath.
The silence stretched so long she thought they had walked away.
Then Riven said quietly, "If I take her outside and she falls, she will tear the wound open. All of this will be for nothing."
"Then do not let her fall," Lira said.
Another breath. That almost sounded like a laugh, buried very deep.
Footsteps shifted.
"If she gets worse, I will remind you that this was your idea," Riven said.
"If she gets worse, I will admit I was wrong," Lira replied. "Until then, stop hiding in council meetings and patrol schedules and go speak to the girl whose life you decided to save."
The footsteps moved away. Someone descended the porch steps. Leaves rustled. Lira, leaving.
The cabin went quiet again.
Nahla stared at the door. Her heart had started to knock against her ribs for reasons that had nothing to do with injury or fear.
She heard the floorboard inside creak.
He was still there.
For a moment she considered squeezing her eyes shut and pretending to be asleep again. It would be easier, in some ways. No conversations. No questions. No having to look directly at the man who had pulled her away from death and into something she did not yet understand.
But she was tired of being a body on a bed.
Tired of pretending.
The knob turned. The door swung inward.
Riven stepped inside.
He filled the doorway, broad shoulders blocking the view of the forest behind him. His hair was damp again, as if he had washed in the river. A thin line of tiredness rested at the corners of his eyes, but his posture was as controlled as ever.
His gaze flicked to her face.
Their eyes met.
So he knew she had heard. She saw it in the small shift of his expression. In the scene outside, he had sounded like an Alpha arguing with his healer. Now he looked like a man who had been caught standing too close to something that burned.
"You are awake," he said.
"Yes." Her voice was steadier than she expected. "I heard Lira. She thinks I am going to lose my mind."
One corner of his mouth tugged upward, almost a smile. It vanished before she could be sure.
"She is not entirely wrong," he said. "Humans are soft in the head."
She snorted. "You say that like wolves are not."
He took a step closer to the bed. Then another. Each one measured, as if he knew exactly how much space his presence took in the room.
"Can you sit up?" he asked.
"Mostly," she said. "As long as I do not look at my leg."
He moved to her side and reached for the pillows. "I will help you."
She tensed automatically. His hand paused, hovering.
"You can lean on me," he said, voice quiet. "If you fall, Lira will kill us both."
That startled a short laugh out of her. It made the tension in her shoulders ease just enough. She nodded.
He slipped an arm behind her back, careful and slow, lifting her so the pillows could be rearranged. His touch was warm through the fabric of her borrowed shirt. His other hand brushed her side, steadying her.
She expected to flinch.
She did not expect the strangest sense of recognition. As if her body knew something her mind did not. As if her bones remembered that night in the forest, remembered those arms carried her when she could not stand.
He smelled the same as he did then. Cedar. Smoke. Cold air. Wolf.
He eased her upright, then stepped back, giving her space.
Breath a little uneven, she asked, "Why are you helping me sit up?"
"Because," he said, watching her carefully, "I am going to take you outside."
Her heart tripped. "Outside."
"You want to see more than this ceiling," he said. "Lira is right. You will recover faster if you have sunlight and air. Also, it will be... easier to have certain conversations in the open."
Something in his tone made her stomach twist. "What conversations?"
His gaze held hers. "The kind you cannot avoid forever."
She swallowed.
"You cannot walk," he added. "Not yet. So I will carry you."
Heat flooded her face. "That is not necessary. You could bring a chair or something, or I could hop, or crawl if I have to, I am not completely helpless, I just..."
Her words tangled in themselves.
He watched her flail for a moment, then said, in that same calm voice, "You are injured, not useless."
"It feels similar," she muttered.
"For us, it does not," he said. "In my world, healing is strength. Knowing when to lean on another is strength. If you wish to insult yourself, do not expect me to agree."
She stared at him.
Then, very slowly, he stepped closer again, to the side of the bed.
"Nahla," he said.
It was the first time he had spoken her name.
It slid over her skin like something warm.
"Let me carry you," he said.
She hesitated for one long heartbeat. Pride, fear, habit, all tangled together. The girl who had refused her sister's help with a plane ticket screamed no in her head.
The girl who had bled out alone on a road in the dark said yes.
"Fine," she whispered. "But if you drop me, I am haunting you."
His eyes softened, just enough to show he had heard the joke.
"I do not drop what I choose to hold," he said.
Before she could untangle the meaning in that, he bent and slid one arm behind her back again, the other beneath her knees, careful to avoid her injured thigh. He lifted her with effortless strength, as if she weighed nothing, as if carrying her was the most natural thing he had ever done.
Her hand flew to his shoulder, fingers gripping his shirt. Heat bled through the thin fabric. Her heart raced.
He turned toward the door, holding her close against his chest.
The cabin threshold waited, and beyond it the world she had stepped into by accident and might never truly leave.
Nahla swallowed, listening to the steady beat of his heart under her ear.
For the first time since the crash, she was going to see the sky.
And she was going to see it in the arms of a wolf.