Nyx

I climbed back into the attic around 4 a.m. I closed window behind me, careful not to make a sound. The rest of the night had gone off without a hitch—no guards, no chasing, no unexpected fights. All smooth. All perfect.

Until I saw him.

Lying on my cot was a tall man, bloodied and ragged, his chest glistening with dark crimson. Silver hair stuck to his forehead, and the ragged breath he drew barely seemed to register the wound splitting his chest.

What the fuck?

I froze, weighing the options. Help him and risk the alpha's wrath—or let him die and risk... what exactly? Not caring wasn't an option. Something about him felt different. Something familiar. His features... sharp, noble even, like the wolf I'd read about in the stories, the Lycan king from old tales.

No. That was just a story. The Lycan king's bloodline had supposedly died out last generation according the books. Coincidence?

I don’t this so.

I stepped closer, checking his breathing. Shallow, ragged, but steady. My hand hovered over the clawed, torn flesh along his chest. Big marks. Deep. Someone—or something—had made sure he felt pain. I moved to the sink, wetting a rag, and began cleaning him, gently wiping away the worst of the blood. The scratches ran jagged across his chest, angry and deep, yet underneath them was muscle, taut and solid, each movement of his chest like a living map of strength.

I was so focused on tending to him that I didn't notice the sudden weight on my arm until a massive hand clamped down.

"Holy shit!" I whispered, yanking back. His green eyes burned into mine, sharp and playful at the same time, and that smile... too wide, too knowing. Was he going to attack?

"I'm stronger than you," i stated.

"Imposs—" His words cut off as he fainted, crumpling back onto the cot.

I froze. This wasn't someone I should be running into. Why the hell had he climbed in my window? Why was I even fixing him up?

Because he didn't smell like the rest of the pack. Because letting someone die when I could prevent it was... wrong. No, because this can be another means of escape.

His hand shot out again, grabbing my arm with surprising strength.

"What are you doing?" he hissed.

"Treating your wounds. If you leave them like this, you risk infection," I said calmly, pulling his hand off me and guiding him into a sitting position. I wrapped the rag around the worst of the claw marks, pressing just enough to stop the bleeding.

Damn. He had a physique that could make anyone weak-kneed if they weren't careful.

Really hot.

"Get—" he started.

"Listen, you need to shut the fuck up up. If anyone finds you here, it's my ass. Just be grateful I'm helping you after you broke into my room, rogue," I snapped.

"Why are you... helping me?" he wheezed.

I didn't answer. Allies were rare. Useful ones even rarer. Opportunities to secure survival weren't an everyday occurrence. I stuffed a rag in his mouth, then focused my magic on his wound.

A scream muffled against the cloth.

I'd practiced this method on animals first, then on myself. A skill no one knew I had. Must've been my mother's side of things—her secrets that she couldn't pass down safely.

Once the flow stopped, I exhaled.

"Healer?" he rasped, pulling the rag away.

"Pretending to be one is punishable by hanging," I said, voice calm, almost clinical. "I heard that hurts, and the temple will cut the tongue of anyone using magic illegally. So this stays between us."

A powerful skill, dangerous if exposed. But it also planted leverage—subtle, dangerous leverage.

"I have no intention of accusing my benefactor," he said.

We'll see about that.

"This is the first time I've met someone who never flinches, even when faced with someone like me," he admitted.

"Then you haven't met many people with balls," I countered, trimming the edges of his wounds.

"Or maybe everyone like that is dead," he said softly, like a warning.

"If you wanted to kill me, you would have done so already. Not that you'd be capable," I said, lifting the rag to wipe a trickle of blood from his jaw. "Usually, you catch someone off guard if that's your plan."

His other hand edged toward the fruit knife on the floor, but I was faster. I grabbed it, holding him in place.

"How... what did you do to me?" he asked, voice trembling.

"Ah. The magic I used just now wasn't stable, so the side effects wear off after a few hours. Enjoy not being able to move. Oh, the look on your face. It's... amusing," I smirked. "I can cast a spell on treated wounds so they can't harm me. I can't even cut myself. Perfect insurance. Always good to have."

He glared at me, brown eyes sharp and suspicious.

I met it calmly. Let him simmer in the uncertainty. Let him wonder if I was friend, enemy, or something entirely more dangerous.

"I'll release you at night," I told him, tightening the last strip of bandage like I was gift‑wrapping trouble. "Then you can go home to whoever you crawled out from."

His green eyes narrowed. "If I come back, you'll be in danger. Do you know who I am?"

"Clearly not." I smirked. "But I've got a lot of control over that spell. Maybe you should stay longer than a day. My magic can make it so."

A quiet threat, soft on the edges. I watched for his reaction.

Nothing. Not even a twitch.

"Come on," I prodded. "No rebuttal? It's no fun if you can't keep up with me."

He exhaled through his nose, slow and deliberate. "I never forget a grudge."

"Says the one taking up my bed." I clutched my chest dramatically. "Shiver me timbers, I'm so fucking scared."

"This is where you sleep?" he asked, brows drawn together.

"This is where I've lived my life for nineteen years," I corrected, gesturing around at the attic: the peeling wallpaper, the beams stuffed with useless insulation, the old crates, the single cot he was bleeding all over. It wasn't much, but it was mine.

He looked around slowly, eyes darkening. "Hopefully your magic never stops working."

"My life's too precious for that," I said. "Besides, I—"

A thunderous banging rattled the attic door.

"GET OUT HERE AND START COOKING!! YOU THINK YOU CAN SLACK OFF?!" Father's voice cracked through the air like a whip. Amazing how his mate and their darling Kori never heard a damn thing when he yelled like that.

I straightened instantly. "Stay quiet," I hissed, throwing a sheet over him—like hiding a body. Which, honestly, wasn't far off.

I rushed to the door just as another voice cut through.

"You!"

Kori's mother. The queen of shrill. They never used my name anymore. If they even remembered it existed.

"We're having company! Get out here and get lunch started! If you burn it, I'll kill you."

Same threat every damn day. It didn't even raise my pulse anymore.

If only they'd forget the one time I burned food.

I'd been eleven—standing on my toes, no stool, cooking alone while juggling half a dozen chores. Burned the pan, burned my arm... no one cared. They only saw "proof" that I was weak. Pathetic. Useless.

Maintaining that impression was my little shield. Let them think I was harmless. Let them underestimate everything that mattered.

"Yes, ma'am," I muttered, lowering my eyes just enough to play the part and slipping past her toward the kitchen—while behind me, hidden under a sheet, a dangerous stranger with brown eyes and a grudge lay in my cot, unable to move.

Perfect chaos. Perfect leverage. Perfect timing.

I'll document this later.