Chapter Twelve.

Flynn’s POV

The warm water clung to my skin

like invisible hands reminding me of everything that had just happened in that bath way after Ray had left me to dress.

Standing up, I let out a soft sigh, pulled the white soft towel which hung on the rail close to the bathtub and wrapped it around me.

The air outside the bathroom was cool against my still wet skin.

As I moved towards the wardrobe, lost in thought, my pulse still beating loudly. I tried to breathe out but no matter how deeply I tried to breathe, I carried his scent—cedarwood and storm—down into my chest, searing me with a craving I didn’t know how to name.

“How are you feeling now, Ma'am?” A calm voice came from behind me, startling me to my bones.

“Oh, so sorry, ma'am. I didn't mean to startle you, my lady.” She apologized softly, her face calm and comported.

“My lady?” I reiterated in my head as I moved my eyes from her to the wooden rack full of neatly pressed clothes—fine gowns of soft fabrics in muted colors, each one gleaming faintly in the torchlight.

Taking note of my eye movement and the confusion on my face, she spoke, her hands and eyes on the rack. “These were ordered for you, my lady,” the maid said, her voice steady as she pushed the rack forward. “By Lord Ray.”

Heat rose instantly beneath my skin, spreading up my neck to my cheeks. Ray ordered these… for me? My pulse fluttered wildly as I stared at the gowns. No one had ever thought of me this way—no one had looked at me and thought I deserved beautiful things. My mother’s sharp voice echoed faintly in memory: clumsy… unworthy… not good enough. Even Ranon had never spoiled me this much.

Yet here was proof that someone thought differently.

I bit my lip, lowering my gaze before the maid could see the rush of warmth staining my face. With careful fingers, I chose a pale cream gown, light as whispering air.

The fabric caressed my skin as I slipped it over my body, the hem brushing just above my knees. Too soft, too fine—it felt dangerous to wear something this delicate. I wondered how he, Ray was going to react when he saw me in it.

In a few minutes, I was properly dressed and ready. The maid led me to the dining hall. My senses, still too sharp from the shift, drank in everything at once. The space was wide, ceiling high and vaulted, the air scented with roasted meat, fresh bread, and herbs that curled into my lungs and made my stomach ache with sudden hunger. The crackle of fire from the hearth filled the silence, while soft footfalls of servants moved like whispers across the polished floor.

I sat where the maid guided me. She and two others glided forward, laying out bowls of stew, warm loaves, dishes of glistening vegetables. Their hands were gentle, almost reverent, as if afraid I might break or snap like earlier. The care in their movements unnerved me—I was not used to gentleness.

Although I sat bodily present in the dinning, my heart searched for Ray. “Why isn't he having dinner too?” It was then I turned and found him in the left corridor.

Ray stood wearing nothing but black pants, low on his hips, leaving his chest bare. His back was half-turned, and he was speaking with another man, probably the friend who had interrupted earlier.

I moved my gaze from the man Ray was speaking to back to him, taking in all the necessary features of Ray which the light from the fire enabled me to.

My eyes moved from the planes of his muscles that held unto me like a source of life earlier to his dark hair and fell back to his face, his lips. It looked like whatever they were discussing was a serious one, his expression was hard—serious, brows furrowed as his friend spoke quickly, urgently.

I knew I should be concerned about whatever it was they were discussing. But I wasn’t. Instead, my body betrayed me. Heat unfurled low in my belly, spreading in a slow, aching bloom.

My skin tingled and became hypersensitive, memories of his taste, his touch against me in the bath, his lips at my mouth, my neck, flooded my mind. The longer I stared, the more dangerous it became. Every detail of him was etched into me—the curve of his shoulders, the smooth rise and fall of his chest, the way his jaw flexed when he frowned. I clenched my thighs beneath the table, trying to quell the restless fire curling there, but it only grew. My wolf shifted inside me, restless, hungry, whispering for me to go to him.

But a voice saved my drown self, pulling me from my thoughts.

“My lady,” the maid said softly, leaning close to pour my tea.

I startled, flinching so hard that the teacup nearly slipped from my hands. Scalding liquid sloshed dangerously close to the edge, almost spilling across the table.

I was so startled that I didn't know I let out a loud gasp which drew Ray's and everyone's attention.

Ray’s head snapped toward me. And in the next heartbeat, he was there. Right beside me.

It was so fast, I barely saw him move. One second he was across the room, the next he was at my side, his hand firm at my waist, steadying me as if I were the most fragile thing in the world.

“Flynn,” he said, my name low and urgent on his lips. His eyes searched mine as he spoke, worry instead of condemnation etched across his face.

For a moment, I couldn’t breathe. No one had ever rushed to me like that. No one cared if I stumbled or faltered. My mother’s voice rang sharp in memory again: clumsy… careless… useless. I braced myself for the same judgment.

But it didn’t come.

Ray’s grip was steady, protective, not condemning. He didn’t sneer, didn’t scold. His concern was raw, unhidden. And it undid me more than anger ever could have.

Caught in the warmth of his hold, the steady thrum of his heart against my side, I went numb. My lips parted, but no sound came. I didn’t know how to respond to this kind of care. I had no memory to compare it to.

“Flynn,” he said again, softer now, coaxing me back. The second time he spoke my name, it wasn’t a command—it was a lifeline.

He eased me gently into the chair again, his hand never leaving me until he was certain I was steady. My body burned everywhere his fingers touched. I was painfully aware of the way his thumb brushed lightly against my waist before he pulled away.

He lowered himself slightly, his gaze locking on mine. “Eat,” he murmured, voice rough with something I couldn’t name. Not authority. Not pity. Something else.

Something dangerous. Something that looked like care.

I swallowed hard, trying to avoid his eyes for fear of how I might react. My throat tightened, and I lifted the spoon again, stuffing the food in my mouth. But, even as I ate, I felt his eyes linger, watching, making sure.

Each mouthful warmed me, but it wasn’t just the food. It was him. The memory of his touch, the way he steadied me without a second thought, the way my name sounded on his lips.

For the first time in my life, I didn’t feel clumsy. I didn’t feel like a burden. I felt… seen.