When His Hands Found Me.

Winter’s POV:

The fabric slides only slightly before my hand reacts on instinct.

My fingers close weakly around his wrist, not with strength, not with resistance, but enough to halt the movement. The sudden contact sends a strange jolt through me, my pulse quickening for reasons that have nothing to do with fear.

For a moment, neither of us speaks.

Derrick’s hand stills beneath mine, his skin warm, steady, entirely unmoving. He does not pull away, yet he does not continue either. His eyes lift to meet mine, calm and searching, as though trying to understand something I am not sure I understand myself.

“I am fine,” I whisper, though the words lack conviction.

The truth is far less sure.

My body aches in quiet protest, my thoughts still wrapped in the haze of recovery, my emotions tangled in ways I cannot properly separate. Yet the closeness between us suddenly feels like the most tangible thing in the room, impossible to ignore.

Derrick studies my face for a long second.

There is no impatience in his expression, no irritation, only that same composed attentiveness that always seems to surround him. It is unsettling how easily he occupies space, how naturally his presence fills the air without ever feeling heavy.

“I know,” he says quietly.

Something about the way he says it makes my chest tighten.

Not in disbelief or agreement, just acknowledgment that feels far more layered than it should.

My grip loosens slightly, though my hand does not immediately drop. I am suddenly aware of how close he is, of the faint warmth radiating from him, of the subtle scent of cedar that seems sharper now that my senses are no longer dulled by unconsciousness.

It is different from Keon.

The thought appears uncalled for, drifting through my mind with uncomfortable clarity. Keon’s presence is commanding, overwhelming, like standing too close to a storm. Derrick is something else entirely, quieter yet no less consuming, like a steady current pulling without force.

“I only want to be certain,” he continues.

His voice is softer now, carrying a calm reassurance that seeps into the spaces my unease tries to occupy.

There is no insistence in his tone, yet the words settle with quiet authority.

“You were hurt, Winter.”

The reminder sends a faint chill through me.

Memory refuses to fully return, but my body remembers enough. The lingering soreness, the strange heaviness in my limbs, the dull echo of pain that feels detached yet real. Someone had attacked me. Someone had reduced me to this fragile state.

And I still do not know who.

My hand slips from his wrist.

The contact breaks, leaving behind a subtle awareness that lingers far longer than it should. Derrick does not comment on it. He simply watches me, his gaze steady, unreadable, waiting.

The patience unsettles me more than pressure would have.

“You make it sound worse than it feels,” I murmur.

“You were unconscious for more than a day.”

That again.

The words settle heavily in my chest, that strange distorted sense of time still difficult to grasp. A day lost. Gone, never to be recovered.

I look away briefly, my fingers tightening against the blanket.

“I do not remember anything,” I admit.

Derrick’s expression shifts almost imperceptibly.

Something far more fleeting, gone before I can name it.

“That is not unusual,” he says.

His hand returns, slower this time, more deliberate. Instead of reaching for my dress again, his fingers lightly encircle my forearm, careful and warm. The contact is gentle, yet the sensation travels far deeper than simple touch.

My breath catches in my throat.

He pushes the sleeve upward just enough to expose my skin, his movements measured, almost clinical in their precision. Yet there is an undeniable awareness beneath it, something that makes my pulse flutter unpredictably.

The air against my arm feels cool.

His fingers feel impossibly warm.

I cannot seem to focus on anything else.

“There is no bruising, thank God.” he murmurs, more to himself than to me.

I follow his gaze, my eyes tracing the line of my own skin as though seeing it for the first time. He is right.

There are no marks, no visible evidence of the violence my body feels like it endured.

It feels wrong.

Disorienting.

“How is that possible?” I ask quietly.

“The doctor.”

The answer comes easily, yet it does little to quiet the faint unease coiling in my stomach. Wolves do not heal witches. Our bodies work different, and I remember his words about Ariana coming to check on me. She had trained her magic so it could heal even other witches, but the fact she was coming made me uncomfortable. My people will not be happy about my attack.

That is for sure.

Derrick’s thumb brushes lightly along my wrist.

The motion is subtle, almost absentminded, yet the sensation sends a sudden warmth spiraling up my arm. My body reacts before my thoughts do, a strange flicker of awareness tightening low in my chest.

He does not seem to notice.

Or perhaps he does.

With Derrick, it is impossible to tell.

“You are tense, you don't have to be.” he says softly.

“I was attacked,” I repeat to myself. I knew the possibility of being attacked was always to be weary of, with the whole witch wolf beef, but I didn't expect to be this badly injured so early on.

Someone had wanted to hurt me. Someone had succeeded.

And I had been alone.

Derrick’s gaze lifts to mine once more.

For a brief moment, something darker moves behind his eyes, something cold and unreadable that vanishes almost instantly beneath his usual calm.

“No one will harm you again.”

The certainty in his voice stills something inside me.

It is not loud, not dramatic, just sure.

It quiets the fears roaming in my mind. I do not question how he can say such a thing. I do not ask what gives him that confidence.

Derrick tugs gently on my dress, pulling it just below my breasts. The air hums with unspoken words.

A dangerous comfort spreads through me as Derrick scans for injuries.

Before I can respond, a sudden presence brushes against my senses.

It's close by, a powerful and familiar presence.

My heart stutters.

Keon.

The realization lands a split second before the door handle turns.

And then the door opens.