Page 10 of The Alpha's Fallen Spell
Shifters are not supposed to kill humans. We have our laws as well as agreements in place with those in the human government who are aware of our existence. But there are always some of my kind who disobey, who like to hunt for sport. As the commander of the army of the Human Wolf Kingdom, it is up to me to hunt those rogues down. This is why, when I heard screaming and smelled blood, I rushed toward the source.
What I hadn’t anticipated was finding this small wolf. It’s very rare to find feral shifters, but I was sure I had come across one. Then, the link that slammed into me, the formation of a bond I never thought I would share with anybody, shocked me to my very core. I was going to kill her because she killed two of those humans. I was going to kill her because I had to kill the remaining witness and one of her victims. How was I to know that she was actually my fated mate?
The girl is still unconscious when I carry a bowl of warm water over to her. Kneeling beside the bed, I dip in the sponge and squeeze it till most of the water is out. My touch is gentle as I lift her arm and begin cleaning the blood off of her. Most of it is her own.
How many people has she killed? How long was she wandering around in the forest? And what am I supposed to do with her?
Her blonde hair, matted with dirt and blood, is short and looks like somebody simply chopped it off for convenience. She doesn’t appear to have been starved, but the bruises all over her arms—which are clearly from needle pricks—make me wonder whether she was given food or fed through an IV line.
I need to report back to Griffin, my older brother and the king of the Human Wolf Kingdom. I have no doubt in my mind that the people I ran into, the ones who were trying to drag this girl back with them, are members of the Silver Ring Organization: a group of shifters and humans that has been determined to bring down the royal families on both sides of the magical Veil.
However, I’m not ready to make this particular report yet.
The girl’s skin is warmer now, the heat returning to her limbs slowly. I continue to clean the streaks of grime and dried blood that coat her arms and chest. Beneath the filth, she looks startlingly young. Not just small, but young. Once the blood is gone from her face, I can see the softness of her features, the hint of youth still clinging to the roundness of her cheeks and the shape of her lips. She doesn’t look a day over seventeen.
My hands stop moving.
No one that young should carry scars like the ones I’m seeing.
My stomach knots as I lower the sponge and gently tug back the fabric clinging to her stomach. The wounds there aren’thealing. Deep lacerations cross her skin, some raw, others sealed in rough, jagged scar tissue that speaks of violence done over and over again without the mercy of time or proper treatment. I know what a healing shifter looks like, and this isn’t it. These are wounds carved to last.
She stirs slightly, a murmur of sound escaping her lips. I freeze, but her eyes don’t open. Her brow twitches. Her breathing quickens.
Then, slowly, she awakens. When her eyes flutter open, the first thing I notice is their color. Gray. A pale, storm-swept gray that hits me harder than I expect.
But the moment she sees me, she recoils, her arms jerking up in a defensive motion that speaks of habit, not thought.
“Hey,” I say softly, lifting my hands to show her I mean no harm. “It’s alright. You’re safe now. I won’t hurt you. I promise.” I stand up and back away from her slightly.
She doesn’t answer. Her breath comes fast and sharp. Her fingers tremble, raised to guard her chest, and I notice how raw her palms are—as though she has fought her way through stone with nothing but her bare hands.
I take another step backward, keeping my movements slow. She watches me the whole time.
“What’s your name?” I ask, kneeling again, this time farther from her, the sponge in the basin now forgotten.
She doesn’t speak. Not a word. Not a sound. There’s no confusion in her eyes, no fear of language. Just silence. An iron wall built by years of survival.
I don’t press her. Instead, I walk across the small, warm room of the safe house—just a cabin tucked into the northern hills, one I keep for emergencies like this—and ladle hot soup into a wooden bowl.
She watches me but doesn’t move.
When I return, she stares at the bowl like she doesn’t know what it is. And maybe she doesn’t.
She reaches for it with both hands and immediately pulls back with a small, pained hiss as the heat burns her raw palms.
I set the bowl aside quickly, crouch beside her, and take her hands gently in mine. “You need to let me do it,” I say quietly. “Let me help.”
She doesn’t respond, but she doesn’t pull away, either.
I lift the spoon, blow on it until the steam fades, and bring it to her lips.
She hesitates. Then, slowly, she drinks the liquid. And something inside me breaks a little more.
She eats the soup in slow, careful sips, as if unsure how to swallow, as if the act of accepting food from someone else feels foreign and wrong. I keep my voice low and my movements gentler still, every action measured so she doesn’t think this is a trick or some new test she has to pass. I don’t know what she has endured, not in the way I need to. But I know enough to recognize trauma when someone flinches without even being touched.
She finishes less than half the bowl before her eyes grow heavy again, the weight of exhaustion pulling her down like an anchor. Her head leans slightly to the side. I catch it before it hits the headboard and ease her back down to the pillow.
I sit there a while, watching her sleep. Noticing the way her breathing stays shallow even in rest, like her lungs have forgotten what peace feels like. My fingers curl around the edge of the basin I used to clean her, my mind churning with everything I’ve seen and everything I’ve failed to understand.
