Finished


    Freya’s POV


    When I woke the next morning, the sterile scent of herbs and wolf–healers‘ salves clung to the air. Myshes fluttered and the first thing I saw was Ss.


    The Irond Alpha, my storm–shadow.


    open,


    He was slumped against the side of my bed in the infirmary chamber, his head resting by my arm as if he had fought sleep until exhaustion dragged him under. His broad shoulders curved inward, the powerful frame of an Alpha made strangely fragile by slumber.


    For a moment, I just looked at him.


    Dark, storm–ck brows framed his eyes,shes long enough to cast shadows against his cheekbones. Even asleep, tension pulled faint lines across his brow–as though even in dreams, burdens hunted him down.


    Something inside me ached. My hand rose instinctively, aching to smooth away that crease between his brows. To soothe him, just once.


    But before my fingers touched him, his eyes shot open–those piercing obsidian irises that seemed to cut through me. His reflexes were sharp as ws: his hand snapped up, capturing mine in a firm grip.


    Then he froze, realization shing across his gaze. He released me at once, as though my skin burned him.


    “I’m sorry,” he said, voice low, almost raw. “Did I hurt you?”


    I shook my head quickly, pushing away the sting in my palm. <b>“</b>It’s fine. I’m the one who startled you awake. When did you get here?<b>” </b>


    “Not long ago,” he murmured.


    I frowned. “Then you didn’t sleepst night, did you?” He wouldn’t have slumped like this if he’d rested properly.


    A pause. “No.<i>” </i>His tone <b>was </b>even, but I heard the exhaustion beneath. He didn’t tell me what Iter realized–that he had spent the entire night traveling back and forth between Ashbourne and the Capital, putting the Whitmor Pack in order after the chaos of the Rogues.


    “Are you… alright?” he asked then<b>, </b>tilting toward me, voice shifting softer, more intimate. “Did you sleep well? Does the wound still hurt?”


    I managed a small smile. “Better than expected. It’s not too bad.”


    I began to push myself upright, determined to freshen up, but Ss moved faster. Without asking, he lifted me, arms strong and steady as steel, and carried me toward the adjoining washroom.


    “Ss!” I protested, startled. “It’s only my arm that’s injured, not my legs.”


    “You’re hurt,” he answered simply, his tone brooking no argument. “Let me.”


    He set me gently before the stone basin, his movements deliberate<b>, </b>careful<b>–</b>as though I might shatter if he wasn’t cautious enough. He filled a cup with fresh water, set out the brush, even pressed paste onto it with clumsy determination.


    Had I not insisted, I was certain he would’ve tried to brush my teeth himself.


    When I’d finally convinced him to let me manage that part alone, he stood guard at my side like a sentinel, waiting. And the moment I finished, he was there again–wringing a cloth with hisrge hands, patting my face dry as though I were the most Precious, fragile thing in the world.


    And then he reached for theb.


    I blinked “You know how to do that?*


    12:25 AM P <b>P </b>


    Finished


    He didn’t look at me as he answered, concentrating on the strands of my hair. His fingers were unpracticed, tugging a little too hard, then gentling as though afraid I’d cry out. “I used to help my mother with her hair,” he said atst. “When she was in a rare good mood. It was the only time she let me near her, the only time she seemed… soft.”


    Something flickered through his voice–pain, sharp and old. A boy yearning for scraps of tenderness.


    I hesitated, then asked softly, “You and your mother… you weren’t close?”


    His hands stilled for a fraction of a second. Then his voice came, t and unflinching. “No. Most of the time, she despised the sight of me.”


    My chest tightened. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have-”


    He cut me off, steady, not cruel. “Don’t apologize. Even if you hadn’t asked, one day I would’ve told you.”


    Ss resumed his task, braiding my hair slowly, carefully. Not elegant, but steady enough to hold. When he finished, he leaned forward, his presence a weight and a warmth all at once.


    His chin rested lightly on my shoulder, his face reflected in the mirror before us. Our eyes met in that fragile ss space.


    Freya,” he murmured, voice a low rumble that carried both hope and dread. “You don’t think I’m tainted, do you?”


    Iughed softly, startled by the rawness in his words. “Tainted? Ss, you’re not dirty.”


    His lips quirked faintly, but the shadows in his gaze didn’t lift. “Not dirty,” he echoed under his breath, almost as though he needed to believe it himself. “Not like him. Not like Cassian.”


    The name struck between us like thunder.


    I turned toward him, meeting his eyes fully. His father’s sins haunted him, twisted into every line of his body. He feared that blood made him monstrous too.


    But when I looked at him, <b>I </b>didn’t see Cassian Whitmor. I saw the Alpha who had stood between me and death, the man who had carried me like something worth protecting.


    And though I didn’t say it aloud, I wanted to reach for his hand and tell him–no shadow, no bloodline, no curse could make me see him as unworthy.


    Not to me.