Page 38 of The Alpha's Fallen Spell
“She didn’t tell me.” The sadness in my voice surprises even me.
Jerry’s expression hardens slightly. “Why would she? Do you know how complicated things have become for her ever since you rejected her? You have no idea what’s been going on because you’ve been avoiding her. She no longer goes to the library because she’s not welcome there anymore. The royal library may be open to all, but whispers follow her. She has started hiding out in the woods now.”
His harsh words land with precision. I straighten, struggling to maintain composure. “Is Maya helping her?”
“They’re working on something together,” Jerry confirms, choosing his words carefully. “But I’m not at liberty to discuss the details.”
I nod stiffly, already turning to leave. I need to find her. Now.
“Erik,” Jerry calls after me. “She doesn’t want to see you. You should stay away from her.”
His warning follows me as I exit the palace, tracking Fiona’s scent into the woods. My wolf guides me, tuned to her presence in a way that transcends conscious thought. I follow a winding path deeper into the trees, away from the training grounds and guarded perimeter.
I find her in a small clearing, sitting beneath an ancient oak tree. She’s sketching something in a small book, her attention fixed on a wild rabbit dozing a few feet away. The sunlight filtering through the leaves dapples her hair with gold, creating an illusion of warmth that her appearance belies.
I freeze, struck by how ill she looks. The hollows beneath her cheekbones have deepened alarmingly, her collarbone juttingsharply against her pale skin. Dark circles underline her eyes like bruises, and her wrists seem impossibly thin where they extend from her sleeves. Each breath she takes looks deliberate, as if the simple act of drawing in air requires conscious effort. Her hair has lost its luster, hanging limp around a face that seems to have aged years in mere weeks.
She looks worse than the day I found her in the forest. Then, her body was broken, but she was fighting. Now, she appears to be fading from within, like a candle burning down to its final flicker.
My wolf whimpers, devastated by her deterioration. How could I have missed this? How could I have been so blind?
I step forward, and a twig snaps beneath my boot. The rabbit startles awake and darts away. Fiona looks up, her expression changing from peaceful concentration to guarded wariness when she sees me.
“Fiona,” I say, her name like a prayer on my lips.
She doesn’t respond. Instead, she returns to her sketching, her pencil moving in quick, deliberate strokes across the page. She’s ignoring me.
I approach slowly, stopping a respectful distance from where she sits. “Your subject ran away.”
“I remember details well,” she replies without looking up, her voice soft but distant. “I don’t need it to stay.”
I wait for her to say more, but she continues sketching as if I’m not there. The silence stretches uncomfortably between us.
“Why are you here, Commander?” she finally asks, still focused on her drawing.
The formal title stings. “Jerry told me you’re sick.”
Her pencil pauses briefly, then continues. “And?”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask, unable to keep the hurt from my tone.
She finally looks up, her gray eyes meeting mine with surprising steadiness. Beneath the physical weakness, I see something I’ve missed before—a core of steel, a fighting spirit that refuses to bend even as her body fails her. Her gaze is clear, direct, challenging.
“Because it’s none of your business.”
Her words are like a punch to my gut. “Fiona—”
“My health has nothing to do with you,” she interrupts me, closing her sketchbook with finality. She rises to her feet, her movements careful and deliberate, as if she is conserving energy. I notice how she braces herself against the tree, how she locks her knees to stay upright. “I would appreciate it if you would stay away from me to prevent any further misunderstandings.”
“Misunderstandings?” I echo, confused. “What misunderstandings?”
She sighs, tucking the sketchbook into a small bag at her feet. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It does matter,” I insist, stepping closer. “Fiona, I care about what happens to you.”
“Do you?” She meets my gaze, something fierce flashing in her eyes. It’s not just anger—it’s determination, resilience, a refusal to be pitied. “That’s not the impression you’ve given.”
“I know I’ve been distant, but—”
