Chapter 38 Caring Alpha
Aelira’s POV
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I nearly collide with Cyrinne as I step out of the consultation room. Her emerald gaze widens, startled, then sharpens into something harder- suspicion flickering like a knife’s edge.
“Were you talking to the doctor about Elysande?” she demands, barring my
way with a rigid arm.
I draw a steadying breath, trying to slide past her obstruction. “I’m not
doing this with you right now, Cyrinne.”
But she’s relentless, trailing me down the corridor, heels clicking a warning.
“Oh, but we are,” she insists, voice pitched to slice. “We need to talk.”
“About what, exactly?” I whirl to face her, my patience threadbare and
fraying. “Your endless manipulation of Alarion? The way you’ve worked at
every turn to undermine my place as Luna? Or maybe how you’re using
Elysande’s illness to tighten your grip on him?”
Color surges into Cyrinne’s cheeks–anger, raw and unfiltered. “You blame
me for every disaster in your miserable life. Whatever’s wrong between you
and Alarion, it has nothing to do with me.”
“Nothing to do with you?” My laugh is jagged, bitter as broken glass. “That’s
rich coming from the woman who just happened to attempt suicide on the day of our mating ceremony.”
Her hands curl into fists, voice dropping to a hiss. “I was in pain! My mate
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“Spare me,” I cut her off, turning to leave. I want nothing from her–least of
all her excuses.
She grabs my arm, nails biting into my flesh. I wrench free, and her claws rake across the back of my hand, tearing skin. Blood wells up instantly, sharp and coppery, flooding the air with its iron tang. My wolf roils restlessly beneath my skin, her instincts crackling to life–protect, defend, heal. Blood from another werewolf’s scratch is no trivial thing; left
untreated, it can spiral into something far worse.
Cyrinne glances at my bleeding hand, her gaze flat with indifference. “It’s
just a scratch. Don’t be so dramatic.”
Something in me snaps. Three years of rage and humiliation, of losses
both petty and profound, surge through me like a tidal wave. I step closer,
my voice dropping to a dangerous hush.
“You’ve stolen everything–my mate’s attention, my standing in this pack,
even my mother’s final moments. And now you have the nerve to act like
I’m overreacting?”
I’m so close I can see the gold flecks swimming in her green eyes. She
flinches, just a little, shrinking from the heat of my stare.
“Aelira!” Alarion’s voice rips through the tension, sharp as a whipcrack. He storms toward us, amber eyes blazing. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Of course. Of course, with perfect timing, he arrives to see only my fury.
“Your precious Cyrinne and I were just enjoying a friendly chat,” I reply, each word steeped in venomous sarcasm.
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Alarion’s gaze flickers between us, his scowl deepening. “This isn’t the
time or place. My mother is fighting for her life, and you’re picking fights in the hallway?”
“Picking fights?” I echo, disbelief tightening my chest. “Is that really what
you think I’m doing?”
“Alarion,” Cyrinne interjects, her tone suddenly fragile, trembling. “I only asked how she knew about Elysande’s condition, and she got so angry…”
I stare at her, astonished by her effortless transformation from predator to
victim. Her performance is flawless.
“This is where you feel sympathy?” I ask Alarion, gesturing toward
Cyrinne’s trembling act. “For her crocodile tears?”
Only now does Alarion notice the blood on my hand. His expression shifts
in an instant, eyes darkening as he inhales the metallic scent.
“What happened?” he demands, reaching for me.
I yank my hand away before he can touch me. “Ask your friend.”
He turns to Cyrinne, his voice gone cold. “Did you hurt her?”
Cyrinne’s eyes widen in wounded outrage. “It was an accident! She pulled
away when I touched her arm. You can’t possibly blame me for a little
scratch!”
“You should apologize,” Alarion says, surprising both of us.
“For what?” Cyrinne snaps, the mask slipping. “A scratch? She’s overreacting!”
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I’ve had enough. Without another word, I spin on my heel and stalk toward the elevator, shutting out Alarion’s voice calling my name. The doors close just as he reaches them, sealing me in blessed solitude.
Leaning against the wall, I stare at my bleeding hand. The wounds aren’t deep, but they sting, pulsing with every heartbeat. I’ll need to cleanse them with moonflower herb as soon as I get home–wolf scratches can fester if
left untreated, stirring trouble in the body and spirit alike.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. Daelor’s name flashes across the screen.
“Hello?” I answer, trying to steady my voice.
“Where are you?” His voice is deep, threaded with concern.
“In the elevator. I needed to get away from them.”
“Come to the seventh floor,” he says. “I’m in the waiting area by Dr. Leyric’s
office.”
As the elevator climbs, I realize how much I want to see him. In the chaos
my life has become, Daelor’s presence is a strange, unexpected comfort.
I find him sprawled in a small waiting area, his tall frame making the
hospital chair look absurdly tiny. He stands as soon as he sees me, silver-
gray eyes immediately locking onto my injured hand.
“What happened?” he asks, nostrils flaring as he catches the scent of my
blood.
“Cyrinne,” I answer flatly. “We argued. She scratched me when I pulled
away.”
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A dangerous light flares in his eyes. “Wait here,” he orders, voice clipped
and edged with threat.
Before I can protest, he’s gone–striding down the corridor toward the
pharmacy. He returns minutes later with a fistful of supplies: antiseptic,
gauze, and a tiny vial of moonflower extract.
“Give me your hand,” he says, sitting beside me.
I extend my hand, watching as he cleans the wounds with meticulous care.
His touch is gentle, almost reverent, surprising in a man so powerful. Every
movement is measured, deliberate.
“These aren’t deep,” he murmurs, dabbing moonflower along the
scratches. “But wolf wounds are never trivial. Left untreated, they can
cause problems.”
The cool sting of moonflower seeps into my skin, familiar and soothing. I know its properties well–herbal remedies have always been part of my world. The extract will keep foreign werewolf essence from interfering with
my healing.
“I know,” I reply. “I was planning to treat it at home.”
Daelor nods, wrapping my hand in a neat, light bandage. “Keep it dry for at
least six hours. You don’t want infection setting in and messing with your wolf’s recovery.”
The simple act of his care stirs something deep in me–a yearning, a
memory of gentleness I haven’t felt in years. Alarion has grown so distant, and with my mother gone…
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<Chapter 38 Caring Alpha
“Thank you,” I say quietly.
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Daelor finishes securing the bandage, but his hand lingers against mine,
warm and steady. For a moment, neither of us moves.
“I’ll drive you home,” he says at last, letting go. “You’ve had enough for one
day.”
The drive is mostly silent. We’re both lost in our own thoughts. My wolf, calmed by the moonflower and Daelor’s presence, curls inside me with
wary contentment. Lately, she responds more to him than to Alarion–a
truth that unsettles and confuses me.
As we pull into the parking lot, I hear myself say, “Do you want to come
up?”
The words hang between us, too forward, too vulnerable. But Daelor simply
nods and kills the engine.
Inside, I head for the kitchen, intent on making tea. Daelor follows,
surprising me.
“I’ll cook,” he announces, rolling up his sleeves with quiet confidence.
I blink, bemused. “You cook?”
A faint smile tugs at his lips. “Don’t look so shocked. Years in military
service before becoming Alpha King–you learn to feed yourself when
missions drag on. Wolves need the right food.”
I watch, fascinated, as he moves through my kitchen with easy
competence, rummaging through cupboards and assessing my meager
supplies.
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“Sit,” he orders, pointing to a bar stool at the counter. “Rest your hand.”
I obey, oddly content to watch him work. He moves with the same
deliberate, economical grace he brings to everything–chopping
vegetables, seasoning meat, assembling a meal with practiced hands.
Soon, the kitchen fills with the rich, mouthwatering aromas of his cooking. My pregnant wolf perks up, cravings sated by the scents alone. Daelor, somehow, has chosen the exact foods my body needs–though I never told
him about the pregnancy.
“This smells incredible,” I admit as he sets the plate before me.
He’s prepared a perfectly balanced meal–proteins, crisp vegetables, and a
side of moon berries, potent for a werewolf’s vitality. The first bite is
transcendent: flavor and nourishment in perfect union.
“This is amazing,” I say after another eager forkful. “Where did you learn to
cook like this?”
Daelor shrugs, quietly pleased by my reaction. “Practice. Food matters for
wolves. I could cook for you more often, if you want.‘
The offer stuns me. There’s a strange intimacy to it–shared meals, regular
company, as if we’re more than just uneasy friends.
“That’s… very kind,” I manage, unsure how to respond.
“It’s nothing,” he says lightly, though the air between us brims with his wolf’s protective scent. “Just a practical arrangement between friends.”
Friends. The word rings hollow, yet I force myself to accept it, swallowing the disappointment that flickers through me.
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After dinner, I gather the dishes, but Daelor stops me with a quiet firmness.
“I’ll handle this,” he says. “You need to keep your hand dry. Let your wolf focus on healing.”
Reluctantly, I surrender the task and watch as he efficiently cleans up.
“By the way,” he calls over his shoulder, rinsing a plate, “I heard some interesting gossip from Nyven today.”
Curiosity sparks, momentarily pushing aside the sting in my hand and the
confusion that clouds my heart.
“What gossip?” I ask, my attention sharpening on him.
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