Heather's POV
☆☆☆☆☆
The nurse gave me a smile and a clipboard, but it barely registered.
I was going to be discharged.
The word felt strange—discharged. Like I'd been a soldier returning from war. And maybe, in a way, I had.
Three days ago, I'd crossed a border half-dead and half-wolf, fleeing a hellhole with nothing but instinct and blood in my veins. Now I stood—bandaged but alive—with clean clothes on my back and people treating me like I mattered.
I wasn't sure how to feel about any of it.
"You're officially cleared, Heather," the nurse said kindly. "Alpha Darrian's arranged everything. Just take it slow, alright?"
Alpha Darrian.
Just hearing his name sent a thrum of heat through my veins.
I nodded mutely, not trusting my voice. My limbs still felt foreign, like they hadn't caught up with the reality that I was safe.
The door opened, and there he was.
Darrian.
He filled the doorway like a storm—broad shoulders in a black shirt, jaw sharp, expression unreadable except for the way his eyes softened just slightly when they landed on me.
"You ready?"
No harsh command. No growled order. Just a question, quiet and steady, like the foundation of something I hadn't dared imagine.
I swallowed the lump in my throat and nodded again.
He walked beside me—not ahead, not behind—as we made our way through the sleek hallways of the pack infirmary. It didn't feel like a prison here. It didn't reek of blood or fear. Everything smelled of pinewood and fresh linen, warmth and control.
When we reached the main packhouse, I paused.
It was beautiful.
Four stories of black stone and thick timber beams. Ivy trailed down the walls, and wide arched windows let in the golden afternoon light. It looked nothing like Marcus's estate, which had always felt like a fortress built to contain.
This felt… alive.
Darrian opened the door for me and nodded toward the grand staircase. "Come on. Your room's on the second floor."
My room.
Not a cell. Not a basement cot. A room.
When we reached the second floor, he stopped in front of a tall, dark wood door and opened it.
I froze in the doorway.
It wasn't just a room.
It was mine.
The walls were painted a soft sage green, like the forest I used to escape to when I was younger. The bed—queen-sized with velvet bedding—looked like something out of a dream. Books lined the shelves along the wall, including my favorite ones I hadn't seen in years. A cozy reading nook was tucked beneath the window, and the closet doors were left ajar—inside were clothes that looked exactly like what I used to wear before Marcus burned them all.
Everything. My size. My taste. My colors.
"How…?" I breathed.
"I asked," Darrian said simply. "Your wolf knew what you liked."
I turned to look at him, heart pounding. "You did all this?"
"I wanted you to have something that felt like yours. Like home."
Home.
The word nearly shattered me.
He stepped aside, letting me walk in alone. My hands grazed the spines of the books. The soft fabric of a hoodie exactly like the one I used to wear every fall. There was even a tiny box of sugar cubes on the nightstand—for tea.
I'd told no one about that.
Not even aloud.
I sat on the bed. It was like sinking into a cloud. The blanket smelled faintly of lavender and clean cotton.
My throat tightened.
No one had ever done anything like this for me.
"You didn't have to," I whispered.
"I know," Darrian said. "But I wanted to."
I didn't say thank you. I couldn't. The words would feel too small for something this enormous.
He didn't linger. Just nodded toward the closet. "Take your time settling in. Dinner's in a few hours. There's someone I want you to meet."
Then he left, leaving me in the quiet stillness of a space that was mine.
For once, I didn't feel like a prisoner.
I felt… like a person again.
Maybe even a queen.
Two hours later, I followed the scent of roasted meat and something herbed down to the dining hall. I'd changed into a soft gray sweater and leggings—my exact size, like every article of clothing in the closet.
I wasn't used to clothes that fit.
Darrian was already at the long oak table, speaking quietly to someone at his side—a woman, tall and elegant with raven-black hair, the same sharp cheekbones and piercing eyes as him. She noticed me first and smiled.
"Ah," she said. "So you're the girl who's turned my brother inside out."
Darrian gave her a warning look.
I froze. She stood and walked toward me, graceful and confident.
"I'm Rhiannon. Darrian's older sister."
"I'm Heather," I said quickly.
She gave me a look like she could see straight through me—but not unkind. She reached forward and tucked a strand of my hair behind my ear, an oddly intimate gesture.
"You're stronger than you look," she murmured. "I can tell."
My cheeks flushed.
Rhiannon linked her arm with mine and guided me to the table, waving a hand at Darrian like he wasn't the Alpha of anything.
"Sit," she said. "Eat. Don't let my brother scare you. He just looks like he eats people."
Darrian grunted but didn't argue.
Dinner was… good. Strange, but good. Roasted lamb, fresh greens, baked bread. Rhiannon talked enough for both of us, throwing casual jabs at Darrian that made me blink. I didn't know siblings could act like that—teasing and sharp but… loving.
After dinner, Rhiannon pulled me aside in the hallway.
"He's been quiet since he found you," she said. "Like something in him finally clicked into place."
"I don't know what he sees in me," I admitted.
She tilted her head. "That's because you haven't seen yourself the way he sees you yet."
And then she kissed my cheek and disappeared into the hall.
I stood there a long time before heading back to my room. My room. With a soft bed. My books. My scent.
For the first time in years, I didn't feel like I was surviving.
I felt like I was starting to live.
And that terrified me more than anything.