laine lingered by the bedside in the dim glow of the chamber, her ice-blue eyes tracing the sleeping Alexander's battered face with a quiet intensity that tightened her chest in a grip that made her breath heavily.
Bandages swathed his skin in stark white layers—swollen black eye sealed shut, busted lips cracked and glistening with healing salve, jagged cuts peeking from beneath linen wraps along his delicate jawline and cheekbones.
Any other omega would have milked those wounds for pity by now, batting lashes or whimpering soft to stir alpha protectiveness, their dynamic biology screaming for comfort and care.
Some did it masterfully, turning scars into subtle lures.
And gods, the facial injuries alone—those that stole beauty and stole breath—would drive lesser souls to despair, to mirror-cracking sobs or hidden blades in the dead of night, convinced no mate could ever look at them with desire again.
