C5

"The Alpha isn't in a mood for company, Master Chika. He hasn't touched the meal I prepared," Malik Arden whispered, his voice hushed as he leaned against the heavy oak sideboard.

I looked at the table—a sprawling feast of rare game and aged wine, a spread fit for a Mafia king, now cooling and untouched. I felt a strange, cold twist in my gut. I’d been so buried in the trauma of my father’s cage that I hadn't even processed that Lucien had come for me. We were strangers bound by a blood-inked contract, yet he’d brought a war-party to the Whitmore estate just to haul me out of the dark.

"Does he always shut everyone out after a confrontation, Malik?" I asked, setting my jacket aside.

"He carries the weight of the Dominion on his shoulders, and lately, those shoulders are tired," Malik sighed, his eyes tracking the closed door of the study. "He spent four hours watching the clock while you were missing. He won’t admit it, but he was restless."

I stood there for a moment, the silence of the mansion echoing the tension in my own chest. I wasn't used to being protected; I was used to being the shield. I grabbed a glass of water and walked to the study door. I didn't wait for a formal invitation this time. I knocked once, hard, and stepped inside.

Lucien was silhouetted against the moonlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows, his chair turned away from the desk. He looked like a statue of obsidian.

"I thought I told you to rest, Chika," he rumbled, his voice low and vibrating with a fatigue he couldn't hide.

"I don't take orders well when I'm hungry, and I don't like eating alone," I said, walking to the edge of his desk. "Malik said you’ve been waiting. Why haven't you eaten?"

"I have no appetite for pleasantries after dealing with a snake like Cedric Whitmore," he turned his chair, his stormy eyes locking onto mine.

"You went there for me," I said, the words feeling heavy. "Why?"

"You are an Afolayan now," he said, his jaw tightening. "If the Syndicate sees that I can't even keep my own spouse safe from a mid-level dealer like your father, the Dominion looks weak. It was a tactical necessity."

"Is that all it was? Tactics?"

Lucien didn't answer. He just looked at the bruise on my cheek, his fingers twitching on the armrest of his chair. "Go eat, Chika. That’s an order."

The next morning, the heavy iron gates of the estate groaned open for a sleek, silver armored vehicle. A man stepped out, his white tactical medic coat stark against the dark gravel. He carried a kit marked with the symbol of the High Healers.

"Master Chika, this is Dr. Ellis," Malik announced as I reached the foyer. "He is the only one the Alpha trusts with his... condition."

Peyton Ellis looked me up and down, a mischievous spark in his eyes that didn't fit the somber atmosphere of the house. He didn't bow; instead, he reached into his pocket and tossed a piece of peppermint candy at my chest. I caught it out of sheer reflex.

"Why the sugar, Doctor?" I asked, frowning at the sweet.

"You look like you’ve been chewing on glass all morning," Peyton chirped, walking past me toward the study. "Consider it a peace offering. Lucien is a nightmare during exams. I need someone in this house who isn't vibrating with wolf-stress."

"May I observe the session?" I asked, turning to Malik.

"The Alpha usually forbids it, but... perhaps he needs a reminder of why he’s fighting," Malik muttered.

I followed Peyton to the study and hovered by the door, peering through the gap. Lucien had his tactical trousers rolled up, his powerful, scarred legs exposed. Peyton was using a weighted reflex hammer, striking the nerves with surgical precision. One hit. Two hits. No response. Lucien’s face was a mask of granite, but his hands were trembling where they gripped the chair.

"Can your husband come in now? He’s been breathing down the neck of the door for five minutes," Peyton called out without looking back.

Lucien’s eyes snapped to the doorway. "Get in here, Chika. Stop lurking like a spy."

I stepped inside, my heart sinking as I looked at his stationary limbs. "Doctor... I saw no reaction. Is the silver-damage too deep?"

Peyton didn't answer immediately. He packed his kit and headed for the lounge, flopping onto the velvet sofa while Malik hurried over with a tray of high-protein snacks.

"Lucien is an absolute mule!" Peyton yelled, stuffing a handful of dried meat into his mouth. "He won't focus! He blocks the neural pathways with his own stubbornness because he’s afraid of the pain!"

"Is he always this difficult?" I asked, sitting opposite the doctor.

"Difficult? He’s a catastrophe," Peyton sighed, waving a bag of chips at me. "So, tell me, why did a prize-winning wolf like you marry a man who can't even hunt with the pack? You’re a Whitmore. You could have had any Alpha in the city. Do you have a thing for broken kings?"

"He’s not broken," I said, my voice dropping to a growl. "He’s just sidelined. To me, Lucien is the only man in this Syndicate with a spine."

Peyton paused, his chewing slowing as he studied my face. "You actually mean that, don't you? You aren't just looking for a payout."

"I want to help him walk again," I said firmly. "Tell me what I can do. He won't talk to me about the mechanics of the injury."

Peyton’s eyes gleamed. He leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper. "The accident a year ago... it was a targeted hit. His legs were crushed under three tons of armored steel. The nerves are there, Chika. I’ve seen the scans. But he has a psychological block. He’s so proud that the idea of failing to stand is more painful than the injury itself."

"I saw him trying to stand in secret," I admitted.

"He did?" Peyton’s eyebrows shot up. He rubbed his chin, a plan forming. "Listen. If you want a miracle, you have to work for it. His muscles are atrophying. He needs daily deep-tissue stimulation—massages to keep the blood flowing to the nerve endings. He won't let me do it. But he might let you."

"Will it work?"

"In this world, Chika, the only thing stronger than silver is the bond between mates. If you can get him to trust you with his body, the nerves might follow his lead."

I spent the rest of the afternoon in the estate library, pulling up every modern wolf-anatomy file I could find. Peyton said the nerves were responsive. That meant the Alpha was still in there, trapped in his own cage of pride.

That evening, I walked into Lucien's private quarters. He was lounging on his bed, a tactical map projected onto the wall, his expression a wall of ice.

"What now, Chika? Did you lose your way to the kitchen?"

I didn't answer. I walked straight to the edge of the bed and crouched between his legs, my hands moving to his shins. Lucien hissed, his hand snapping down to catch my wrist in a grip that could crush bone.

"What the hell are you doing?" he spat, his eyes flashing amber.

"I’m giving you a massage," I said, looking him dead in the eye. "Peyton said your circulation is trash."

"Get off me. I don't need a nurse," he growled, but he didn't push me away.

I shifted my hands higher, reaching for his thighs where the primary scarring began. I was clumsy, my movements unpolished, and I could feel the sheer tension in his muscles.

"Do you even have a plan, or are you just trying to tickle me to death?" Lucien mocked, though his voice had lost its edge.

"Shut up, Lucien," I whispered, focusing on the heat of his skin. "I’m trying to find the man who walked into my father's house yesterday. He's in here somewhere. I just need to remind your legs who’s in charge."