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161


ALPHA COLLIN

Alpha Collin had faced battlefields soaked in blood without flinching.
He had stood before the king without bowing his head.
He had ordered executions and slept soundly afterward.
He had carried the weight of an entire pack’s survival on his shoulders since the day he took his title.
None of that compared to this.
Watching Althea suffer quietly.
He stood in the shadowed corridor outside her room, far enough away that no one could accuse him of intruding, close enough that he could sense her presence. The door remained closed—always closed.
It had been days since she woke.
Days since Kaylie had told him, with brutal clarity, that Althea wanted nothing to do with him.
She doesn’t want to see you, Kaylie had said.
And frankly, Alpha, she shouldn’t have to.
Those words replayed in his head every time he lifted his hand to knock—and forced himself to lower it again.
He could sense her pain.
Not just physical.
The bond between them—damaged, strained, but not broken—carried echoes of it. A dull, persistent ache that pulsed through his chest like a reminder carved into his bones.
She wasn’t healing.
Not the way wolves were meant to.
Talia’s weakness haunted him more than Kaylie’s anger ever could.
A wolf too tired to heal its own.
Because of him.
He pressed his palm against the stone wall, grounding himself before the guilt swallowed him whole.
“She doesn’t come out anymore,” one of the guards murmured nearby, unaware Collin could hear him. “Barely speaks.”
Another answered quietly, “She looks… empty.”
Collin closed his eyes.
Empty.
That was worse than anger. Worse than fear.
He had seen wolves break before—under torture, under loss, under war.
But Althea wasn’t breaking.
She was withdrawing.
And he knew, with sickening certainty, that it was because of him.

ALTHEA

I knew he was out there.
I always did.
The bond—quiet as it was—carried his presence like a distant storm cloud. He never crossed the threshold. Never knocked. Never forced his way in.
That was the only mercy he had left.
I sat by the window, my arm resting carefully in its sling, watching the courtyard below. The sun warmed my skin, but it didn’t reach inside me.
Talia stirred faintly.
He’s hurting, she murmured.
“I know,” I replied softly.
Do you care?
The question wasn’t accusing. Just curious.
I thought about it.
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “I don’t have room to.”
Healing took everything I had.
Not the bone—Kaylie assured me that was knitting together slowly, painfully, but correctly.
It was my heart that refused to cooperate.
ALPHA COLLIN
Kaylie confronted him three days later.
She didn’t soften her steps or her words.
“You need to stop haunting the hallway,” she said flatly.
“I’m not interfering,” he replied.
“No,” she agreed. “You’re just punishing yourself.”
He didn’t deny it.
“She’s not healing,” he said quietly.
Kaylie’s expression hardened. “She is healing. Just not like a wolf should.”
“Because of me.”
“Yes,” she said. No hesitation. No mercy. “Because you broke her trust. And her body remembers.”
He clenched his jaw. “What can I do?”
“For once?” Kaylie said. “Nothing.”
That answer struck harder than any accusation.
“You can’t command her to heal,” Kaylie continued. “You can’t force Talia to recover faster. And you certainly can’t undo what you did.”
His voice was rough. “Then why does it feel like I’m watching her fade?”
Kaylie’s gaze softened—just slightly. “Because you are.”
The truth settled like a blade in his chest.
“She eats,” Kaylie went on. “She follows instructions. She’s compliant.”
“But?”
“But she’s gone quiet in a way that scares me,” Kaylie admitted. “Wolves who go that quiet usually do it because they’ve learned the world isn’t safe.”
Collin’s breath stuttered.
I made her unsafe.
The realization hollowed him out.

ALTHEA

Time blurred.
Some days I forgot what day it was. Others I counted the hours just to feel anchored to something measurable.
Kaylie said my arm was improving.
I could feel it too—the pain easing from sharp to dull, the stiffness loosening slightly when I moved my fingers.
But inside?
Nothing eased.
I didn’t dream anymore.
Didn’t imagine futures.
Didn’t hope.
Hope felt dangerous.
Once, I caught my reflection in the mirror and barely recognized myself. My eyes looked older. Quieter.
Like someone who had learned a lesson too well.

ALPHA COLLIN

Collin finally broke one evening.
Not with rage.
With truth.
He stood outside her door, resting his forehead briefly against the wood, careful not to knock.
“I’m sorry,” he said softly, knowing she could hear him—or at least feel him.
No answer.
“I know you don’t want to see me,” he continued, voice low and steady. “I know I don’t deserve forgiveness.”
Silence.
“But I need you to know,” he said, swallowing hard, “that I would take it back if I could. Every word. Every second.”
His chest ached unbearably.
“I don’t expect you to heal for me,” he whispered. “Or because of me.”
A pause.
“Just… don’t disappear.”
The words were raw. Unfiltered.
He stepped away before he could say more.
Because this time, restraint wasn’t cruelty.
It was the last thing he could offer her.
And somewhere inside the quiet room, Althea closed her eyes—not in forgiveness, not in acceptance—but in acknowledgment.

He knew she was in pain.
And for the first time in his life, Alpha Collin understood what it meant to be powerless.