Chapter 19

Eileen's POV

The car pulled up to Keaton Manor, and I didn't wait for Gavin to open the door. I was already moving, clutch in one hand, skirts bunched in the other as I hurried up the stone steps.

The potion should be ready by now.

I'd left it simmering before the party, timed perfectly according to Mother's notes. If I'd calculated right—and I was pretty sure I had—it would be the exact shade of deep amber she'd described.

The manor was quiet. Most of the staff had retired for the night, leaving only the soft glow of lamps in the main hall. I didn't stop. Didn't pause to catch my breath. I just kept moving toward the greenhouse where I'd left my potion brewing.

The door creaked as I pushed it open, and the smell hit me immediately—bitter, earthy, with that sharp medicinal tang that meant it was done.

Yes.

I set my clutch down on the workbench and moved to the cauldron. The liquid inside was perfect. Deep amber, thick but not too viscous, with tiny flecks of goldenseal suspended throughout.

I grabbed one of the crystal vials Mother had left me—small, elegant, with a cork stopper—and carefully ladled the potion in. My hands were steady. Practiced.

This is it. This is my first real chance to prove I can help him.

I sealed the vial and held it up to the lamplight, watching the way the liquid caught the glow. It looked almost magical. Which, I supposed, it was.

I tucked the vial carefully into my palm and left the herb room and headed toward the main wing. Toward Silas's bedroom.

The hallway was dimly lit, candles flickering in their sconces, casting long shadows across the polished wood floors. As I approached his door, I saw someone standing outside.

A tall figure. Broad shoulders. Dark hair.

Dr. Noah.

He turned as I approached, and his expression shifted from neutral to mildly surprised.

"Luna," he said, inclining his head slightly. "I wasn't expecting you back so soon."

"The party ended early," I said, which wasn't exactly true, but close enough. "Is the Alpha—"

"He's fine," Noah said quickly. "I was just finishing his evening examination."

I nodded and moved past him, knocking once before pushing the door open.

Silas was sitting on the edge of his bed, wearing a dark blue silk robe that hung loose around his shoulders. His legs were stretched out in front of him, and Noah's medical kit was still open on the nightstand.

He looked up as I entered, and those gray-blue eyes locked onto mine.

"Eileen," he said, voice low. "You're back."

It wasn't a question. Just a statement. Like he'd been waiting.

"I am," I said, stepping inside. Before I could close the door, Noah followed me in.

I held up the vial. "And I brought something."

Noah moved to stand beside me, eyeing the vial with professional curiosity. "What is that?"

"A potion," I said. "Based on my mother's recipe. It's meant to ease the symptoms of the curse—temporarily—without putting too much strain on his body."

Noah's eyebrows went up. He reached out, and I handed him the vial.

He uncorked it and sniffed, his expression thoughtful. Then he held it up to the light, turning it slowly.

"The ratio is precise," he said after a moment. "Goldenseal, valerian root, and... something else I can't identify."

"Moonflower extract," I said. "It should help with the pain. And it won't interfere with any of your treatments."

Noah was quiet for a long moment. Then he nodded.

"It's safe," he said, handing the vial back to me. "You can give it to him."

Relief flooded through me, sharp and sudden. I'd been half-convinced he'd tell me it was useless. Or worse, dangerous.

"Thank you," I said.

Noah packed up his kit and gave Silas a brief nod. "I'll check in tomorrow, Alpha."

Silas didn't respond. Just watched as Noah left, closing the door softly behind him.

And then it was just the two of us.

I walked over to the bed, holding out the vial. "Here."

Silas took it, his fingers brushing mine. The contact was brief, but I felt it—warm, solid, grounding.

He uncorked the vial and drank it in one smooth motion, his throat working as he swallowed.

I watched, my heart beating a little too fast.

When he finished, he set the empty vial on the nightstand and looked at me.

"Tastes terrible," he said.

I laughed, the sound startled out of me. "Sorry. Healing potions usually do."

"I'll manage," he said, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

There was a pause. A beat of silence that stretched just a little too long.

Then Silas reached for the cord by his bed—the one that would summon Gavin.

"Don't," I said quickly, stepping forward and catching his hand.

He froze, his fingers going still under mine.

"Let me," I said, my voice softer now. "I can help you get ready for bed."

His eyes searched mine, and I could see the question there. Why?

Because I owed him. Because this was the least I could do.

But I didn't say any of that.

"Please," I said instead.

He was quiet for a long moment. Then, slowly, he nodded.

"Alright," he said, his voice low. Almost... gentle.

My heart did something stupid in my chest, and I forced myself to focus.

You're just helping him. That's all.

I moved to untie the sash of his robe, my fingers fumbling slightly with the silk. The fabric was cool and smooth under my hands, and as I loosened it, the robe fell open.

And I—

I stopped.

Because I hadn't expected this.

Silas wasn't wearing anything underneath the robe. Just bare skin. And that skin was...

Oh my God.

He was built like a fighter. Broad chest, defined muscles, abs that looked like they'd been carved from stone. There were scars—thin white lines across his ribs, a darker one along his collarbone—but they only made him look more dangerous.

More real.

I'd assumed—stupidly—that someone who'd been in a wheelchair for years would be... weaker. Softer.

But Silas wasn't weak. Not even close.

"Do you... work out?" I asked, my voice coming out a little strangled.

He huffed a quiet laugh. "What else am I supposed to do? Sit around and wait to die?"

I swallowed hard and forced myself to keep moving. I helped him shrug out of the robe, draping it over the back of a chair, and grabbed the clean sleep shirt from the nightstand.

As I helped him pull it on, my hands brushed against his arms. His shoulders. And I couldn't help but notice how solid he felt. How warm.

Focus, Eileen. You're here to help, not ogle him.

But then my hand slipped lower, brushing against his thigh as I adjusted the fabric, and I froze.

Because his legs—

They weren't atrophied. Weren't weak.

They were firm. Strong. Like the rest of him.

How is that possible?

My gaze drifted lower, almost without my permission, and I found myself staring at the line of his waist. The way the loose fabric of the sleep shirt hung just above his hips.

And then my brain did something truly mortifying.

It asked a question.

If his legs are cursed, but the rest of him is fine, does that mean—

"Eileen."

His voice cut through my thoughts like a blade, low and rough and way too close.

I jerked my head up, and found him watching me. His gray-blue eyes were dark, intense, and there was something in his expression that made my face burn.

"What are you thinking about?" he asked, his voice dangerously soft.

"Nothing," I said quickly. Too quickly.

His hand moved, catching my wrist. His grip was firm but not painful, and he pulled my hand back to rest on his thigh.

Right where I'd been touching him before.

"The curse only affects my legs, Luna," he said, his voice dropping even lower. "As for the rest of me..."

He leaned in, his breath warm against my ear.

"I'm perfectly functional."

My face exploded with heat. My heart was pounding so hard I was pretty sure he could hear it, and my body—

My body was doing things it absolutely should not be doing.

Oh God. Oh God, oh God, oh God—

"I—I need to get water," I stammered, yanking my hand back and practically stumbling toward the door.

Behind me, I heard him laugh. Low and deep and way too satisfied.

I fled.