Chapter 4

Poppy~

I stand there in the doorway, heart hammering against my ribcage, words dying in my throat before they can form. Jethro light eyes soft with concern as they search my face. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out except a faint stammer.

“I… I…” The syllables tangle on my tongue. Heat floods my cheeks more. How do I explain this? How do I tell him I am not the woman he thinks I am without breaking him again?

His fingers rise slowly, gentle as a breath, and tilt my chin upward. I flinch at first, instinctively trying to pull away, but the look in his eyes stops me. Intense vulnerability. Longing. Something so tender it makes my chest ache. I let him.

“Have you been crying, Nella?” he asks, thumb brushing lightly over my cheek where the tears have dried.

The question sends a fresh sting to my eyes. I try to respond, but my voice cracks. “I… n-no, I…” Another stammer. The warmth of his touch, the way he looks at me like I matter, it all overwhelms me.

“Who hurt you?” His tone deepens with protectiveness, brows drawing together. “Tell me.”

The words vibrate softly inside my chest, filling a space I did not know existed. Nobody has ever asked me that. Not like this. Not with such genuine care. Not even Barid, who once watched me cry after every miscarriage and simply turned away. For one moment, I feel seen. Special. Wanted.

But reality hits back at me so fast. He is not seeing ‘me’. He is seeing Nella. This tenderness belongs to another woman. My heart twists like they are about to rip as I pull my face away from his hand.

“I’m not mad at you,” I manage to whisper, forcing the words out.

He studies me for a while, then his voice drops even softer. “Then why are you not inviting me in? We always sleep together, Nella. I need you close tonight.”

A hard cough escapes me as I struggle for air, for composure. Before I can find any words, he steps closer. His hand slides to the back of my head, fingers threading gently into my hair, and he pulls me against his chest.

The contact steals my breath. His skin is warm, almost feverish. Hard muscles press against my body through the thin nightgown. I feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat, the rise and fall of his chest, the faint scent of him; masculine, comforting, with a hint of hospital antiseptic. Heat blooms in my stomach, unfamiliar and frightening. My hands tremble where they rest against his sides.

I pull back quickly, cheeks burning. “Come in,” I breathe, stepping aside.

He moves slowly, pain flickering across his face with each step. I slip my arm around his waist, supporting his weight as we make our way to the large bed. He lies down with a sigh of relief. I try to move away, but his arm wraps around me, pulling me down against his chest once more.

Once again, I let him.

His heartbeat fills my ear, strong and steady. The sound soothes something deep inside me, even as confusion and guilt swirl together. For the first time in weeks, the sharp pain of Barid’s rejection feels slightly muted in this strange, warm cocoon. I lie there, listening, breathing him in, until his breathing evens out into sleep.

Carefully, I ease away. He does not stir. I tuck the covers around his broad frame, fingers lingering on the bandages. Then I excuse myself to the bathroom, change into a more decent silk nightdress, and curl up on the couch, pulling a blanket over myself. Exhaustion claims me quickly.

When I wake the next morning, soft sunlight filters through the curtains. I am in the bed, properly tucked beneath the duvet. Confusion washes over me. How did I get here? I do not remember moving.

The door opens with gentleness. Jethro enters, carrying a tray of food. He moves with careful strength, bandages still visible on his shoulder, head, and neck. If I were not his doctor, I might believe he had fully recovered. My heart stutters at the sight.

He sets the tray beside me on the bed and sits down, close enough that his warmth reaches me again.

“Eat,” he says simply, his voice gentle but commanding.

Discomfort knits in my stomach. No one has ever served me like this. Not Barid. Not anyone. “I should be the one serving you,” I protest softly. “You are still healing.”

A small, almost amused smile touches his lips. “I am the Alpha.”

The words send shock through me. He remembers who he is. At least that part of his memory remains. Why not the rest? Why can’t he recall that I’m not her? I tell myself it is normal with head trauma. I am overthinking.

Jethro pushes the tray closer. “You have grown too thin, Nella. Eat.”

I scoff lightly, the sound surprising even me. “You are funny.”

‘As if he knows,’ I think to myself.

“This is the first time I have seen you smile since I woke up in the hospital,” he murmurs, watching me with those piercing eyes. “You should keep smiling. It suits you.”

Tears burn behind my eyes. I look away, focusing on the food, but the kindness in his voice rips something inside my chest. “Thank you for the meal,” I whisper.

He waits until I have taken a few bites, then speaks again. “I am ready to grant your request.”

I pause, fork halfway to my mouth. “What request?”

“I am ready for us to get married.”

The food I'm chewing spills from my mouth as I choke, coughing hard. I set the tray aside with shaking hands and scrambling off the bed.

“Nella? Wait!” He calls after me, but I am already moving, heart pounding wildly. “Nella, Nella!” His voice follows me down the hallway, but I do not stop.

I find his parents at the breakfast table. The moment they see my face, their expressions shift to concern.

“I cannot do this anymore,” I say in a trembling voice. “I doubt I can continue.”

They look devastated instantly. Mrs. Northcutt rises. “Has he not treated you right? Tell us what happened.”

“He has been perfect,” I admit, the words heavy. “But he is now requesting marriage. That was never part of the plan.”

Understanding dawns on their faces, but no surprise. Mr. Northcutt sighs. “Before the attack, he was discussing marriage with Nella. She had been insisting on it for some time. We hoped that memory had faded with the others.”

I shake my head, my heart racing fast. “I cannot do this. He needs to focus on healing, not marriage.”

They exchange glances, then turn back to me with desperate eyes. Those same desperate eyes that always get to me.

“Please, Poppy,” Mrs. Northcutt begs. “You are already doing so much good. We can see the improvement in him every day. Just agree. It will be a marriage only on paper. Not real.” She lets out a soft breath. “Once his memories return, we will dissolve everything and compensate you generously.”

“I can’t—” I start, but Mrs. Northcutt’s eyes fill with tears. She begins to lower herself to her knees.

I catch her arms, stopping her. My own heart aches at the sight. These people are fighting so hard for their son. I have no family. No one who would kneel for me. If I had a bit of what Jethro had, maybe my life would have been perfect. Their action swings something in my chest.

“Alright,” I whisper, voice breaking. “I will do it. But on one condition.” They stare at me, waiting. I continue, “The moment he regains his memories, I leave immediately. I do not want to see his face again.”

They nod immediately. “It will be written into the agreement,” Mr. Northcutt promises.

I stand there, chest tight, wondering how much more of my time I will have to sacrifice before this nightmare ends.