Chapter 32
Elena's POV
Eight years ago. Winter.
I was thirteen, halfway through seventh grade. The bus dropped me off at the edge of the manor district on a Friday afternoon. My boarding school gave us weekends at home.
Snow fell thick and lazy. I walked carefully, my boots crunching on the icy path.
I'd just finished midterms. All I wanted was to get home, curl up with hot chocolate, and forget about school for two days.
That's when I saw him.
About twenty yards ahead, a tall figure stumbled along the sidewalk. Even through the snow, I recognized the black jacket. No scarf. No gloves. Just that thin jacket.
Caleb.
I slowed down, instinctively keeping my distance. He was fifteen then—a high school sophomore who lived at Blackwood Manor but hardly ever came home.
Something was wrong with the way he moved. He'd take a few steps, then stop and lean against a tree like he needed to catch his breath. His gait was unsteady, like he was drunk.
But that didn't make sense. He was fifteen. And from what I'd heard, he didn't drink.
I stopped walking entirely, watching him from a distance.
Even from here, I could see the flush on his face. The way his breath came out in heavy white clouds.
He was sick. Really sick.
And he was trying to walk to Blackwood Manor.
A voice in my head whispered: Keep walking. Don't get involved. It's not your business.
But I didn't move.
I watched as he staggered another few steps, then collapsed against a lamppost. His head hung low, shoulders heaving.
I should help him. Anyone would help someone who was that sick.
But this wasn't just anyone. This was Caleb Vance. The private shame of the most powerful wolf family in the city.
Damon's words echoed in my memory: "Stay away from him. He's dangerous."
My father's warning: "The Cross family can't afford to be associated with the Vance family's... problems."
But Caleb wasn't moving anymore. He'd slumped down onto the snow-covered ground, back against the lamppost.
I took a step forward. Then stopped.
Then another step.
My mind was screaming at me. Every instinct I'd been taught told me to walk away. To pretend I hadn't seen anything.
If anyone found out I helped him, there would be consequences.
But he might die out here.
"Dammit," I whispered.
I ran toward him, my breath coming in panicked gasps. When I got close, I could see him more clearly.
His face was flushed with fever. His dark hair was damp with sweat despite the cold. He was shaking.
"Hey." I crouched down in front of him. "Are you okay?"
Stupid question. Obviously he wasn't okay.
He lifted his head slowly. His eyes—those strange amber eyes—focused on me with difficulty.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then his voice came out, rough and hoarse: "Don't need help."
"You're burning up." I reached out without thinking, pressing the back of my hand to his forehead.
He flinched back like I'd slapped him.
His skin was scorching. Way too hot. Dangerous-hot.
"You need to get inside," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "Can you stand?"
"I said go away."
But when he tried to push himself up, his arms gave out. He collapsed back against the lamppost with a choked sound.
That decided it.
"I'm not leaving you here to freeze to death," I said, more sharply than I meant to. "So either you let me help, or I'm calling someone."
"Don't." His voice turned desperate. "Don't call... anyone."
Something in his tone made my chest ache. Like being discovered would be worse than dying in the snow.
"Fine," I said. "Then you're coming with me."
I grabbed his arm and tried to pull him up. He was heavy—all muscle and bone—and for a second I thought I wouldn't be able to do it.
But somehow, I got him on his feet.
He swayed dangerously. I ducked under his arm, letting him lean on me. He was so much taller that I had to stand on my toes.
"Where... are you taking me?" he mumbled.
"Home. My home." I couldn't take him to Blackwood Manor. Not in this condition. They might not help him.
We staggered down the street together. Every few steps, he'd stumble and I'd have to brace myself to keep us both upright.
By the time we reached Cross Manor, my shoulders were screaming and my legs felt like jelly.
I couldn't bring him inside the main house. Mom and Dad were home. They'd ask questions. They'd call the Vances.
So I steered him toward the storage shed in the garden. It was old, barely used, but it had walls and a roof.
"Sit," I ordered, helping him down onto an overturned crate.
He slumped forward immediately, head in his hands.
"Stay here," I said. "I'll be right back."
I ran inside, my heart hammering. The house was quiet—Mom and Dad were upstairs. I grabbed a bottle of water from the kitchen, a thermometer and fever medication from the bathroom cabinet, and a clean towel.
When I got back to the shed, Caleb hadn't moved.
I knelt in front of him and held up the thermometer. "I need to check your temperature."
He didn't respond.
I aimed the infrared scanner at his forehead.
104°F.
My stomach dropped. That was dangerous. Really dangerous.
"You need to take this." I shook two pills from the bottle and held them out.
He stared at them like they were poison.
"It's just fever medication," I said. "Please."