Chapter 7 Bandaged Wrists
[Lysander]
"I win," I said softly, looking down at her face, flushed with both exertion and fury. Her silver hair splayed across the floor in the moonlight. "An Alpha who cannot defend herself becomes a liability to her pack. Your father may have stripped you of your position, but you've allowed yourself to weaken. That's on you."
The rage in her eyes was palpable, her jaw clenched so tight I could see a muscle twitching. What surprised me most was the raw potential still evident in her movements. Despite years of neglect, her instincts were remarkable—movements I'd only seen from seasoned warriors twice her age. With proper training, she could become formidable again.
Nyx struggled violently against my hold, her voice a low growl. "Let. Me. Go. Now." Each word dripped with barely contained fury.
I released her wrists and stood, extending a hand to help her up. She slapped it away, rising on her own and brushing off her clothes with sharp, angry movements. Her breathing was heavy not just from exertion but from the effort of controlling her temper.
As she crossed her arms defensively, I noticed the darkening bruises forming on her wrists where I had pinned her. There was also a scrape along her forearm, likely from when she hit the floor.
"You're injured," I stated, moving toward a cabinet in the corner of the room.
"It's nothing," she snapped, trying to conceal her wrist by pulling down her sleeve.
I returned with a first aid kit, my expression leaving no room for argument. "Sit."
"I don't need your help," she insisted, her pride clearly wounded more than her body.
"It wasn't a request." I gestured to the couch. "Sit down, Nyx."
Her eyes narrowed dangerously, but something in my unwavering stance made her relent. She sat stiffly on the edge of the couch, extending her arm with obvious reluctance.
I knelt before her, taking her wrist with a gentleness that contrasted sharply with our earlier combat. The bruises were darkening rapidly—I had underestimated my own strength against her delicate skin. A pang of regret flickered through me.
"This might sting," I warned, applying antiseptic to the scrape. She didn't flinch, but I felt the slight tension in her arm.
As I carefully wrapped a cooling bandage around her wrist, her scent shifted subtly. The sharp edge of anger remained, but beneath it was confusion—and something else I couldn't quite identify.
"Why are you doing this?" she asked, her voice quieter now.
I looked up, meeting her eyes. "Because you're to be my wife. Your well-being is my concern now, whether you like it or not."
She pulled her hand away once I finished, flexing her wrist experimentally.
"Fine. You win. I accept your terms," she said coolly, though her eyes flashed with something unreadable. She bit the inside of her cheek, clearly hating to concede but bound by her own sense of honor. "We maintain mutual loyalty, at least on the surface."
I nodded, feeling a small sense of victory bloom in my chest. "A wise choice."
"Don't misunderstand," she warned, her voice sharp. "This is just an arrangement. It doesn't mean I have any expectations for this marriage."
"Of course," I replied, allowing a slight smile to touch my lips. "Just an arrangement."
As I turned to leave the living room, I paused at the doorway and looked back at Nyx, still standing in the moonlight, absently touching the bandage on her wrist. "Goodnight, future wife," I said, letting a hint of satisfaction color my tone.
Her head snapped up, eyes flashing dangerously as she fixed me with an icy glare. "Don't call me that," she hissed, the bandaged wrist forgotten as her hands clenched into fists at her sides.
I held her gaze steadily, unfazed by her anger. "You'll need to get used to it sooner or later, Nyx," I replied calmly. "The ceremony is in three weeks."
Without waiting for her retort, I inclined my head slightly and continued on my way. Behind me, I could practically feel the heat of her stare burning into my back.
As I walked away, I permitted myself a genuine smile. This was just the beginning. She was even more extraordinary than I'd imagined—fierce, skilled, and proud even in defeat. The road ahead would be challenging, but for the first time in my twenty-five years of monotonous existence, hope burned bright within me. I didn't just want her name on a marriage contract or her presence at my side for appearances—I wanted all of her. Mind, body, heart and soul. I would have her complete surrender, her absolute devotion, not just her reluctant compliance.
She might see our marriage as nothing but a political arrangement now, but I had time. And patience had always been my greatest strength.
[Nyx]
The cold marble of the garden steps bit into my thighs as I sat alone, rubbing at the faint bruises forming on my wrists. Proof of my defeat. Proof that Lysander Crowley had bested me in combat.
I traced the marks his grip had left, the memory of being pinned to the floor still burning in my mind. The shame cut deeper than any physical pain. Once, I had been untouchable in combat training, my technique praised by instructors who saw the future Alpha in my every move. Now I couldn't even defeat a Gamma warrior.
We're out of practice, Sylva whined in my mind. But the instinct is still there. You felt it.
I had. For brief moments during the fight, muscle memory had taken over, my body remembering what my mind had tried to forget. But it wasn't enough. Years of neglect had dulled my reflexes, weakened my technique. And Lysander had seen right through me.
"Your reflexes are still sharp, but your technique lacks refinement. You've been neglecting your training," he'd said, his voice frustratingly calm as he easily countered my attacks.
His words had stung because they were true. I had abandoned my training, abandoned everything that once defined me. It was easier that way—to pretend I didn't care rather than face what had been taken from me.
"Look at the fallen heir, nursing her wounded pride."