The room remained too suspiciously silent after her scream, Arin's chest rose and fell in ragged breaths as she stared at the unfamiliar room. She was trembling—not from pain, though it still throbbed like a dull echo in her bones—but from the sharp edge of fear slicing through her. She did not feel like she was safe in the strange room.
When she tried to move, to get off the bed, her limbs refused to obey her. Her throat was dry, her heart thundering a wild rhythm in her chest. She tried to cry out again, to scream until someone—anyone—answered, but her voice cracked.
Before she could gather strength to scream louder, the door creaked open.
Arin froze.
A man stepped into the room, tall and broad-shouldered, with wind-tossed dark hair and the kind of face that could have been carved from stone. He was ruggedly handsome, but it wasn't beauty that made Arin's blood run cold—it was the uncertainty. Who was he? Friend or foe? Was the the one who sent those savages to get her?
She scrambled backward on the bed, pressing herself against the headboard like a trapped animal. Her breath hitched, and she clenched the thin blanket tighter around her body.
The man lifted both hands, palms open, in a gesture of peace.
"I mean you no harm," he said, his voice low and calm, as if he were speaking to a skittish horse. His eyes—gray with specks of amber—flicked to the side of the room, briefly scanning something near the table where the noise she heard had come from, before he looked back at her.
Arin narrowed her eyes, trying to follow his gaze. What was he looking at? So she had not been delusional. Something had made noise there.
She opened her mouth to demand who he was—where she was, what was happening—but before the words could form, movement startled her.
A child—small and quick—darted from beneath the table and ran straight into the man's arms.
Arin's mouth hung open as she stared, stunned.
The little girl couldn't have been more than four or five, with a mop of curly brown hair and a soft round face. She clung to the man's leg, then when peeked over her arm with wide, curious eyes. Her gaze met Arin's for a brief moment before she buried her face against the man's leg.
The man crouched slightly, gathering the child in his arms with a practiced ease. "You were not supposed to be in here, remember?" he said gently, though there was a trace of sternness in his tone. "Can you see that you frightened the lady."
The girl glanced back at Arin shyly, her lower lip tucked between her teeth.
Arin blinked. Her heartbeat began to slow, if only by a little.
The tension that had gripped the room slowly began to ease, though not completely. The man was still a stranger. But he had not come to hurt her. At least… not yet.
"Who are you?" Arin managed at last, her voice hoarse and cracking.
The man stood upright again, the child still cradled against his side. "Zayan Vale," he said simply. "Alpha of the Easteen Pack."
Arin's breath caught.
She had heard of him—rumors whispered even in the Northern lands. The Western Pack was the most secluded of the four, mysterious and reclusive. Few ever saw the Alpha and lived to describe him. And now here he was, standing in front of her with a child in his arms and a voice so calm it made her want to cry.
"You were unconscious when my scouts found you and those savages at the edge of our territory," Zayan continued, his tone even. "You were injured. Exhausted. At their mercy." His gaze hardened as he looked at her. "We brought you here for healing. You have been asleep for two days."
Two days?
Her mind reeled.
Everything came crashing back in a tide of pain: the betrayal, the disgrace, the cold eyes of her father, Roan's fury, the jeering whispers, the hands that reached for her in the dark. She had run. She didn't even remember how far. Just… away.
She lowered her eyes to her lap, swallowing hard.
"I did not mean to frighten you," Zayan said again. "I was told you might be awake. I thought I would come check on you myself, but someone"—he gave the girl a look—"was already hiding in here."
The child squirmed slightly in his arms. "She looked like a princess," she whispered.
Zayan smiled faintly. "She does, doesn't she?"
Arin stared at them both, unsure of what to say. No one had ever called her that—not even in jest.
"What is her name?" she asked quietly.
Zayan glanced at the child. "This is Myla. My niece."
Niece. Not daughter. Arin noted that detail instinctively, though she didn't know why.
"She is curious about everything," Zayan added with a wry look. "Most especially about strangers who show up half-dead at our borders."
"I'm not a threat," Arin said suddenly, her voice sharper than she intended.
Zayan's expression didn't change. "I don't believe you are."
That surprised her. Most werewolves she had met were quick to judge her. Weak. Useless. Wolfless.
But Zayan wasn't looking at her with disdain. There was something else in his eyes—something thoughtful. Assessing. Curious.
"I'll give you time to rest, the healer will be around to see you." he said at last, gently setting Myla down. "Come on, little one. Let's go."
Myla hesitated, then gave Arin a small wave. "Bye, princess," she whispered.
Arin couldn't help the soft breath of laughter that escaped her lips. It was the first sound of joy she'd made in weeks.
Zayan met her gaze again before turning away. "If you need anything, someone will be just outside the door. You are safe here, Arin."
She didn't know how he knew her name. But somehow… she believed him.
As the door closed behind them, Arin leaned back into the pillows, the ache in her heart easing just enough to let her breathe.
Safe.
For now.