CHAPTER 7

Elara’s Pov

I scrambled backward, hands tangling frantically in the expensive silk sheets. 

I didn't even know what I was apologizing for… for being alive, for breathing his air, for marring the bed, but the words tumbled out in a broken, desperate stream.

"I didn't mean to stay asleep! I'll clean it, I'll scrub the floors, I promise, just please—"

The mattress gave way beneath me as I reached the edge, but in my blind panic, there was no stopping. 

A tangle of a heavy duvet snared my legs like a trap, dragging me over the side. 

The floor met me with a dull, jarring thump, and a small cry escaped my lips as the impact jolted through my bruised hip.

Movement felt impossible, so I didn't even try to get up. 

Instead, I stayed exactly where I fell, curled into a ball on the rug, my forehead pressed to the floor in the submissive posture of a lowly Omega. 

With eyes squeezed shut, I braced myself for the inevitable. 

I waited for the roar of anger, the whistle of a belt, or the familiar reminder that I was a glitch who didn't deserve to breathe.

"Please don't," I whispered, my voice thick with a terror that made my limbs quake. "I’ll go back to the cellar. I’ll leave. Just... please don't hit me."

The silence that followed was worse than any scream. 

I heard his footsteps, slow, heavy, rhythmic, approaching the side of the bed.

Thud.

Thud.

The scent of cedar and cold mountain air sharpened as he stopped directly over me. I could feel the heat radiating from his massive frame.

"Who," his voice dropped to a whisper sharper than a blade, "told you that you were allowed to touch the floor?"

I froze, my breath hitching. I dared to peek through the tangled strands of my hair. His face was entirely foreign; I didn't recognize him at all.

"W-who..." I swallowed hard, my throat feeling as though it were filled with dry sand. "Who are you?"

He didn't move, but his shadow seemed to expand, swallowing me whole.

"I am Alpha Varick of the Vanguard Pack," he stated. 

There was no boast in his tone, only a terrifyingly certain fact. 

"And in my halls, little wolf, we do not cower on the floor like beaten curs. Rise."

He had commanded it, but my body had forgotten how to obey anything but fear.

I gripped the edge of the silk duvet, my knuckles white, and tried to force my weight onto my legs. 

They didn't just shake; they buckled like wet paper. I collapsed back to my knees with a sharp gasp, my breath coming in ragged, shallow hitches.

"I—I’m trying," I stammered. "I’m sorry, Alpha. My legs... they won't..."

Varick let out a low, huffed breath and reached a massive, gloved hand toward me.

The sight of that hand triggered a decade of survival instincts. 

I didn't see a gesture of help; I saw a strike. I ducked violently, throwing my weight backward to escape his reach. 

I recoiled like a panicked animal until I hit the base of a heavy wooden wardrobe, slumped against the grain.

"Don't!" I shrieked, eyes wide and wild. "I can help myself! I’ll do it, don't touch me!"

I tried to claw my way up the side of the wardrobe, fingers slipping on the polished wood. I was a pathetic mess of trembling limbs and white-hot terror. 

Varick didn't yell. 

He didn't growl. He watched my struggle with a gaze that was heavy and unreadable.

Before I could make a third attempt to stand, he moved. He was a blur of dark grace. 

Before I could even blink, he was looming over me.

"Stop," he rumbled.

He reached down and scooped me up as if I weighed no more than a handful of feathers. 

I gasped, hands flying up to push against his chest, struggling with every ounce of my fading strength. 

No one touched me unless they intended to hurt me. 

This closeness wasn't comfort; it was a trap.

"Let me go! Please, I’ll clean it!" I thrashed in his arms, but it was like trying to move a mountain.

He ignored my protests, his grip firm but strangely careful as he carried me back to the bed. 

He laid me against the pillows, and I immediately tried to roll away, heart hammering against my ribs.

"No, I'll dirty it," I cried, staring at the pristine cream sheets. "I'm not allowed... I'm dirty—"

"Be still," Varick commanded. 

Though it was a direct order, the edge of his voice was strangely blunt, not jagged. 

He placed a hand on my shoulder, the one that had been shredded, and pinned me gently but firmly to the mattress. 

"You are not dirty. And you are not going anywhere."

I stared up at him, chest heaving. 

Why was he being so gentle?

It was a trick. 

People like him didn't use that low, steady tone with people like me unless they wanted something terrible.

"You are not fully healed," he continued, his icy blue eyes searching mine. "The method I used to close those wounds was... unconventional. It was taxing. If you move too much, there will be complications."

"I don't care about complications!" I snapped, hysteria finally breaking through my filter. "I shouldn't even be here! You should have let me—"

A sudden, sharp heat flared in my chest. I didn't finish the sentence. 

Instead, a violent tremor racked my body, and a wet, hacking cough tore through my throat. 

I pulled my hand away from my mouth, and my heart stopped. 

Dark, metallic-smelling blood was splattered across my palm and the white tunic.

"See?" Varick said, his voice darkening as he reached for a basin of water. "Your body hasn't accepted the mend yet. Now, stop fighting me before you bleed out on my rug."

I stared at the blood, my vision blurring.

The world tilted, as if I were still falling off that cliff. 

Varick’s hand was surprisingly steady as he pressed a cool, damp cloth against my chin, wiping away the crimson stain. 

He held a glass of water to my lips.

"Drink," he ordered.

I took a hesitant sip, the liquid soothing my raw throat. But the suspicion remained a knot in my stomach. 

I looked at him, this terrifying King of the North, and the question finally broke free.

"Why?" I whispered. "Why are you being so... kind? You don't know me. I'm an Omega. I’m nothing. You should have left me to the rogues."

Varick went still. He set the glass down with a slow, deliberate click. He leaned in, his massive frame casting a shadow that felt like a protective shroud rather than a threat.

"I don't care what your pathetic excuse for a people called you," he said, his voice dropping to a gravelly, intimate depth. "And I didn't save you out of pity."

He reached out, his thumb grazing my jawline. 

The touch was electric, not the sharp, painful spark I’d felt with Ryker, but a deep, resonant hum, like a mountain waking up.

"I am being kind," he murmured, his blue eyes burning into mine, "because you are my mate."

The water I had just swallowed turned to lead. 

My brain short-circuited, the word echoing like a cruel joke.

Mate?

I choked. 

The water went down the wrong pipe, and I exploded into a fit of violent coughing. I scrambled to sit up, gasping for air, my eyes wide and wild with shock.