Chapter 14
ELARA’S POV
I woke to a pounding ache in my skull, a relentless pulse that throbbed through my entire body. Blinking against the haze clouding my mind, I caught the sharp, familiar scent of herbs.
The infirmary. I was back in the Mountain Dew Pack.
Confusion crashed over me, swiftly replaced by a gut-twisting memory of what had happened. My heart lurched.
“Are you awake?” A gentle voice broke through my spiraling thoughts. I turned to see Martha, her blonde hair, usually tied in a tidy bun, now loose and slightly messy. Her eyes held a heavy sadness, so unlike her usual warmth.
I forced a weak smile, though my muscles screamed in protest. I tried to sit up, but the pain in my head surged, sharp and unforgiving.
“Don’t,” Martha said, hurrying to my side. Her hand, firm yet kind, pressed my shoulder, guiding me back to the bed. “You’re too weak. You’ve got serious injuries.”
“What happened?” My voice scraped out, hoarse and unfamiliar, like gravel in my throat. I touched my neck, wincing at the dry, parched feeling.
Martha’s eyes darkened with sorrow. She sighed softly. “You were attacked, Elara. Badly hurt and poisoned. The Royal guards got there just in time to save you.” She paused, her frown deepening. “I’m so sorry. It must’ve been awful.”
A hiss escaped me as I shifted, trying to get comfortable and take in the room. My mind struggled to process her words. “I don’t… I don’t remember much.” I stopped, glancing around. The other beds were empty—wrong, that wasn’t right. “Where’s Alerza? The guards who were with me? Where are they?”
Her gaze dropped, avoiding mine, and in that agonizing moment, I knew.
“They didn’t make it, did they?” My voice trembled, desperate for a different answer. But Martha only shook her head, confirming the worst.
A bitter scoff left my lips, followed by hot tears streaming down my face. Unbelievable. My mind raced, grappling with the impossible. Who did this? Why? Was it the other pack? Was the illness a lie? Questions swirled, but answers eluded me.
“Rest,” Martha said, standing from my bedside. “I’ll let the Alpha and healers know you’re awake.”
“How long was I out?”
“Two weeks,” she said, her tone grim. “Two weeks, Elara.” She left without another word, leaving me alone with my thoughts.
I lay there, unable to sleep, my mind churning over the attack. The door creaked open, and Ronan entered, flanked by two healers, Riven and Nico. I tried to push myself up, desperate to demand answers, but Nico was at my side in an instant.
“Don’t move, Elara,” he said, his brow furrowed as he examined me, searching for new damage. “You’ll tear your stitches.”
“Stitches?” I echoed, confused. My blood was supposed to heal anything. I yanked the blanket off, my stomach twisting at the sight of bandages and stitches crisscrossing my body.
“But… shouldn’t I heal faster?”
Nico nodded. “You did. Without your blood, the poison and stab wounds would’ve killed you. Your body fought hard to keep you alive. Now that you’re awake, your healing should speed up soon.” He gave a small, reassuring smile.
“How long?”
“A few days,” he said with a shrug. “Maybe longer.”
I nodded, my gaze drifting to Ronan. He stood like a statue, his face an unreadable mask of conflicting emotions. His amber eyes stared past me, fixed on some distant point in the room. A sharp pang of disappointment cut through the dull ache in my chest. Why wouldn’t he look at me? I pushed the thought away—this wasn’t about us.
Riven approached, holding a wooden bowl. “This will ease the pain and help you heal,” he said, his voice calm and soothing.
I took the bowl, murmuring thanks. The bitter liquid hit my tongue, nearly making me gag, but a warm numbness soon spread, dulling the pain’s sharp edges.
After a few more checks, the healers left, leaving me alone with Ronan. The silence between us was thick, heavy, almost suffocating. He stood there, brooding like a storm cloud, lost in thought. I wanted to speak, to demand answers, but the words wouldn’t come. What could I even say?
“The letter was a fake,” Ronan said suddenly, his voice a low growl that sliced through the quiet. His eyes finally met mine, burning with a flicker of rage. “It wasn’t the real message.”
I rubbed my hands together, my mind racing to keep up. “I don’t understand,” I said, struggling to piece it together.
He stepped closer, deliberate and slow. “Someone intercepted the real letter—the one asking for a healer. They moved first.”
“Why?”
His gaze pierced mine. “They wanted you dead, Elara.”
Anger sparked within me, glowing hotter. Ignoring the faint tug of my stitches, I pushed myself up. “Why?”
He ran a hand through his dark hair, a gesture I’d seen when he was stressed. “I don’t have all the details yet,” he said, his voice turning cold, “but I’ve handled it.”
My throat tightened as I imagined what that meant. He was Alpha Ronan. If he said he’d handled it…
“How?” I asked, dreading the answer. “What do you mean?”
“You don’t need to worry about it.” He stepped closer, his hand resting gently on my shoulder, guiding me back to the bed with a firm but soft touch. He pulled the blanket up, tucking it around me.
As he turned to leave, my hand shot out, grabbing his without thinking. He flinched, a subtle twitch, and I pulled back, my cheeks burning with embarrassment. “I’m sorry,” I mumbled, mortified.
He paused, then leaned back, hands shoved into his pockets, his posture stiff. “Something you want to ask?”
“Yes,” I said, nodding. “If the letter was fake, what about the real one?”
“I found it,” he said flatly.
“Okay.”
He stepped closer, his fingers brushing my cheek, sending a shiver through me. “I’m sorry I didn’t see the trap you were walking into,” he said softly.
For a moment, I didn’t want him to pull away. His touch lingered, warm and steady.
“But don’t worry,” he whispered, his voice low and firm. “They’re gone. All of them.”