Page 15 of The Alpha's Fallen Spell
Then, I remember.
The forest. The men. The blood.
Him.
Movement draws my attention. He’s there, slumped in a chair beside the bed, his head tilted awkwardly against hisshoulder. His chest rises and falls with each steady breath, his face softer now, less alert. Less lethal.
Erik. That’s what the scientist called him.
The beast inside me recognizes him, wants to move closer. It confuses me, this pull. I’ve never felt anything like it, a magnetic tug toward another person that isn’t the result of fear.
I study him openly now, since he can’t see me looking. His features are harsh but not cruel—strong jaw, straight nose, dark brows drawn slightly together even in sleep. A shadow of stubble covers his chin. He looks exhausted, like he’s been watching over me for hours.
No one has ever watched over me before.
I glance down at myself and freeze. I’m wearing clothes. A large shirt, soft and faded, buttoned to my throat. And there’s no chain, no restraint, no guard standing over me with cattle prods or needles.
I’m not tied down.
The realization hits me like cold water. In one motion, I push myself upright, waiting for the pain to follow—but it doesn’t come. I press a hand to my stomach where the wounds should be and find only smooth skin under the fabric.
A gasp escapes me, too loud in this quiet room. The man—Erik—stirs but doesn’t wake.
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, my movements slow and careful. My bare feet touch the clean floor, warm from a nearby fire that crackles in a stone hearth. For a moment, I just sit here, breathless with the shock of such a simple thing: standing up when I choose.
Could it really be this easy? After all these years?
Am I truly free?
My gaze falls on a window across the room. Beyond it, trees sway in wind I can’t feel. I rise, legs trembling—but not from weakness. From possibility.
The floor creaks beneath my weight as I cross to the window. My hand finds the frame, fingers curling around it. I push. It doesn’t move. I try again, harder this time, desperation building in my chest with each failed attempt.
“It doesn’t open.”
I freeze, every muscle locking into place. The voice is deep, rough with sleep, but not threatening. Not yet.
I turn slowly, pressing my back against the wall, hands flat against the wood at my sides. Ready to fight. Ready to run.
Erik is watching me, his posture still relaxed in the chair, though his eyes are sharp now, alert. He doesn’t move toward me. Doesn’t raise his voice. Just watches, as if waiting to see what I’ll do next.
“How are you feeling?” he asks.
Words stick in my throat. How long has it been since anyone asked me that? Since anyone cared about the answer? I try to speak, but nothing comes out. My hand moves to my stomach again, pressing where the wounds should be.
“Your injuries have healed,” he says, answering my unspoken question. “I had a healer take care of you. You were—” He pauses, something dark crossing his face. “You were badly hurt.”
I swallow hard. My tongue feels thick, clumsy. I have words—I know I do—but they’ve been buried for so long under screams and silence.
Erik rises slowly, keeping his movements telegraphed and careful. He crosses to a wooden chest and pulls out something gray that looks soft. A sweater, I realize, as he approaches me. He holds it out, not forcing it on me, just offering.
“You’re shivering,” he says.
Am I? I look down at my arms and notice the goosebumps prickling my skin. I reach for the sweater hesitantly, my fingertips brushing against his as I take it. The contact sends an electric jolt through me. Not from fear. Something else.
He guides me back to the bed gently, as if I might shatter. I sit on the edge, and he drapes the sweater around my shoulders. It’s warm from being near the fire, and it’s impossibly velvety against my skin.
“Can you tell me your name?” he asks, crouching in front of me so we’re at eye level. “Do you remember it?”
