Chapter 22 Hungry… But Not For Food - Aleksandr’s POV
I scrubbed Blackwater's blood from my hands in the kitchen sink, the cold water turning pink as it circled the drain. The staff kept their distance, pretending to be absorbed in their tasks while sneaking glances at their king with bloody hands. I couldn't blame them. Even with my eyes returned to normal and my claws retracted, the scent of violence clung to me like smoke. Skoll had retreated to the corners of my mind, satisfied for now but still watchful, still hungry for more vengeance.
'She'll smell it on us,' Skoll warned as I dried my hands on a towel a nervous server handed me. 'The blood. The rage.'
"I know," I muttered, ignoring the way the cook's assistant flinched at my voice.
I had frightened Amelia. The memory of her shrinking back in her chair, those mismatched eyes wide with terror, made my stomach twist. In my fury at those who had hurt her, I'd become exactly what she feared—a monster with glowing eyes and sharp claws, ready to inflict pain.
'We protected her,' Skoll insisted, though his certainty wavered. 'Blackwater deserved worse.'
"He did," I agreed silently. "But she didn't deserve to see us like that."
I handed the now-stained towel back to the server with a nod of thanks, then strode out of the kitchen toward the garden. My steps slowed as I approached the pavilion where I'd left her. Part of me—the cowardly part—hoped she'd taken the opportunity to flee back to her room. It would be easier than facing her fear, than trying to undo the damage of that single moment of lost control.
But as I rounded the corner, I saw her still sitting at the table, exactly as I'd left her. She hadn't moved—hadn't touched her food or coffee, hadn't even shifted position. She sat with her back rigid, hands clasped tightly in her lap, eyes fixed on the table before her. Waiting. Like a condemned prisoner awaiting sentence.
'She thinks we left to calm down before punishing her,' Skoll realised with horrified clarity.
The thought made bile rise in my throat. I approached slowly, deliberately making my footsteps audible on the stone path to avoid startling her further. Still, her shoulders tensed as she sensed my approach, though she didn't look up.
"Amelia," I said softly, stopping a few feet from the table.
Her head jerked up, those beautiful mismatched eyes still wide with fear but now tinged with resignation. She had composed her face into a careful mask, but the rapid flutter of her pulse at her throat gave her away.
"I apologise for scaring you," I continued, keeping my voice gentle. "That wasn't my intention."
She blinked rapidly, confusion briefly replacing fear. "It's fine, my king," she whispered, the words automatic, practiced—a response conditioned by years of appeasing those with power over her.
"Aleksandr," I corrected gently, moving to my chair but not sitting yet. "Please."
A small, forced smile flickered across her face, but the fear remained in her eyes, in the rigidity of her posture. I sat down slowly, keeping my movements measured and deliberate.
"Your coffee's cold," I observed, gesturing to her untouched cup. "Would you like a fresh one?"
She hesitated, then shook her head slightly. "No, thank you... Aleksandr."
I noticed the way she braced herself after saying my name, as if expecting punishment for the presumption. When none came, some of the tension eased from her shoulders—just a fraction, but it was something.
"Tell me about your wolf," I said after a moment, changing tactics. Direct questions about her abuse had triggered my rage; perhaps this would be safer ground.
She stiffened again immediately. "I don't—" she began, then stopped herself. "I don't have one. Not really." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Kaela can't shift."
"But you can talk to her?" I pressed gently.
The question seemed to surprise her. A small, genuine smile touched her lips for the briefest moment. "Yes. She's very opinionated and angry most of the time."
'Like someone else I know,' I thought, feeling Skoll's indignant huff in response.
"Skoll was the same when he was younger," I told her, allowing a touch of wry humour into my voice. "Still is the same, if I'm being honest."
'I have reason to be angry,' my wolf grumbled, though there was no heat behind it.
"What does Kaela look like?" I asked, watching Amelia's face carefully. "Do you know?"
Her eyes unfocused slightly, as if looking inward. "She always seems enormous," she said slowly. "With black fur and..." She touched her own face lightly. "Her eyes are like mine. One green, one blue."
Inside my mind, Skoll stirred with interest. 'Good wolf,' he rumbled approvingly. 'Kaela is a good wolf.'
I felt my lips curve into a smile. "Skoll thinks highly of her already."
Amelia's eyes widened slightly. "He... you can..." She trailed off, apparently unsure how to phrase her question.
"Yes, Skoll can sense her," I confirmed. "And she can probably sense him too, though it might feel different than you're used to."
She nodded slowly, her fear gradually being replaced by cautious curiosity. It was like watching ice thaw—a process both subtle and transformative.
"There are people in my employ," I said carefully, "who have studied and helped people shift for the first time when they've been late bloomers. Or at least found out why they can't shift."
Something flashed in her eyes then—a spark that took me a moment to identify because I'd never seen it in her before. Hope. Raw and fragile, but unmistakably there.
"Kaela likes the sound of that," she whispered, a slight flush colouring her pale cheeks.
I nodded, feeling my own hope rise in response to hers. "We can arrange for you to meet with them. No pressure, no expectations. Just... exploration."
'We will help them,' Skoll declared with surprising gentleness. 'The wolf deserves to run.'
"Thank you," Amelia said, her voice stronger than I'd yet heard it. She hesitated, then added, "Kaela says... she says thank you too."
I found myself smiling again, genuinely this time. "You're both welcome."
The breakfast around us had gone cold, forgotten in the wake of revelations and confessions. But something warmer had begun to grow in its place—not trust, not yet, but perhaps the soil in which trust might eventually take root.
"Would you like to start again?" I asked, gesturing to the food. "I can have fresh coffee brought out."
Amelia glanced at the pastries, then back at me. "Yes," she said, with the first real smile I'd seen from her. "I think I would like that very much."