AMORA'S POV;
Stepping out of the steaming shower, I felt a wave of warmth rush over my skin, but it wasn't just the hot water that had done it. There was something about this place—a mix of opulence and comfort, danger and safety—that sent my senses spiraling. The bathroom was still thick with mist, the scent of vanilla and sweet lemon from the shower swirling around me like an invisible embrace, intoxicating and calming all at once. It was as though the steam had washed away not just the grime from my skin but the tension that had wound itself into the very fabric of my bones.
My eyes landed on the bed. There, neatly folded, were clothes—his clothes. I stood for a moment, dripping water onto the floor, staring at the garments as if they held the answers to all the questions swirling in my mind. The pants were far too big, and the shirt—oh, the shirt was massive, practically swallowing me whole. Yet, as I slid into them, a warmth I hadn't expected spread through me. His scent clung to the fabric, that same intoxicating mix of vanilla and citrus, and I felt wrapped in it, surrounded by the essence of someone I barely knew, yet couldn't stop thinking about.
A shiver ran down my spine, but it wasn't from the cold. I found myself thinking absurd thoughts—what if I could wear these clothes forever? What if I could stay in this strange, alluring space forever, surrounded by this scent, this comfort, this mysterious presence? But I caught myself, shaking my head.
"Get a grip, Amora," I muttered under my breath, trying to snap myself out of it. "You'll be leaving here soon, and you'll probably never see him again."
My rational mind was trying to take control, but my inner voice wasn't so easily silenced. Didn't you say that the last time? The last time he saved you?
I pushed the thought aside forcefully, refusing to dwell on it. I had bigger problems. I needed to figure out what to say to my father when I got home. Father. The word felt bitter on my tongue, as if it no longer suited the man who bore the title. How would I explain my absence? What excuse would be good enough to stop his rage? I knew I'd get hit a few times—that was inevitable—but that wasn't what gnawed at my insides. No, it was something else, something darker. Why did the very thought of him send chills racing down my spine? Why did the word father feel so... wrong?
A tightness spread across my chest, and suddenly it felt hard to breathe. It wasn't the usual dread of physical pain—I'd long since learned how to handle that—but something deeper, something that clawed at the very core of who I was. The unease settled in my stomach like a stone, heavy and unmovable, and for a moment, I thought I might collapse under its weight.
Just as the room began to close in on me, a knock at the door shattered the silence, pulling me out of the downward spiral of my thoughts. I breathed a quiet sigh of relief. Saved by the knock.
"Come in," I called, my voice steadier than I felt. The door opened, and Wilder stepped in, carrying a tray laden with food—more than enough for one person. His presence was like a gust of fresh air, and I forced myself to relax a little.
He gave me a tentative smile, though concern still lingered in his eyes. "Amora... how are you feeling now?"
"I'm much better, thank you," I said, trying to smile back, though the muscles in my face didn't seem to want to cooperate. I wasn't lying, exactly. Physically, I did feel better. The bath had helped. But inside? Inside, I was a mess.
"The Alpha said you should eat," Wilder continued, placing the tray down with careful precision. His words lingered in the air, and my mind immediately latched onto them.
"Where is he?" The question left my mouth before I could stop it. My heart fluttered, and I hated myself for the way my pulse quickened at the mere mention of him.
Wilder didn't seem to notice my slip. "He had some things to attend to. He'll be back later. Do you need me to call him?"
"What? No!" I practically yelped, my cheeks flushing hot with embarrassment. "I don't want to trouble anyone."
Wilder chuckled softly. "Alright. But if you need anything, there's a guard at the door. Just call for him."
A guard? Royalty, I thought again, the word dancing in my mind like an elusive shadow. This entire place felt like a castle, with its guards and servants, and him—the Alpha, the mystery that I couldn't quite untangle. It was strange, unsettling, and yet... comforting in a way I couldn't explain.
"Thanks for the food, Wilder," I said, my voice softer now.
"Always welcome," he replied before quietly leaving the room.
I stared at the tray of food for a while, feeling the gnaw of hunger but also a strange reluctance to eat. The meal was beautifully prepared, fit for royalty—or at least someone far more important than me. The scents were tantalizing, but as I lifted the fork to my mouth, I realized I couldn't eat more than a few bites. My body, conditioned to survive on so little for so long, couldn't handle the richness of the feast laid before me. I pushed the plate away after only a few mouthfuls, calling for the guard to take it away.
He arrived quickly, but when I offered to carry the tray out myself, he bowed his head low, insisting that I stay in the room. "The Alpha's orders," he said simply, as if that explained everything. Everyone was bending over backward for me, and I couldn't shake the feeling that it was all because of him.
I tried to pass the time with a book, but every few minutes, my eyes flicked toward the door, waiting, anticipating. Three hours passed, maybe four, and still, he didn't return. The growing tension inside me was unbearable, and just when I thought I couldn't stand another minute of waiting, the door swung open, and there he was.
He strode into the room with that effortless authority, his presence filling the space even though he said nothing at first. My heart skipped a beat, and I quickly sat up, closing the book I hadn't really been reading.
"Why are you still up?" His voice was low, with just a hint of annoyance.
"I wanted to ask you something," I said, the words coming out sharper than I intended. The tension in my chest was bubbling over, and I couldn't hide it.
He raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms over his chest. "You could've waited until tomorrow. The doctor said you should be resting."
"I'll rest after you answer my questions," I shot back, refusing to back down. My frustration was mounting—frustration with him, with myself, with everything I didn't understand.
He sighed, clearly irritated. "Fine. You have five minutes."
"Five minutes?!" I repeated, incredulous. "But I have so many questions!"
"Your time is ticking," he said, his voice cold and unyielding.
Who does that? Who talks to someone who's been through hell like that? I bit back the angry retort on the tip of my tongue. If I wanted answers, I needed to play this right. I took a deep breath, trying to steady myself, and focused on the most important question.
"Where... where are we?"
He didn't hesitate. "New York."
"New York?" I blinked in disbelief. That was impossible. How could I be in New York? I thought we were in Paris. How had I gotten here?
"You didn't come here by plane," he added, almost too casually. "You came by private jet."
My head was spinning. A private jet? This was all too much. "Why didn't you just take me to a hospital? In Paris?"
He narrowed his eyes, his voice darkening. "So your attacker could finish what he started? No."
I opened my mouth to protest, but his words hit me like a punch to the gut. He was right.
I swallowed hard, my mouth suddenly dry. He was right, of course. The thought of returning to the hospital in Paris, of being vulnerable, of my attacker finding me again—it made my skin crawl. But the reality of being in New York, thousands of miles from home, in a city I didn't know, surrounded by people I didn't understand... it was overwhelming.
"You could've taken me to another city. Anywhere else," I muttered, more to myself than to him. "But you brought me here. To New York. Why?"
His eyes locked onto mine, and for a moment, I could see something flicker there. Anger? Frustration? No, it was something deeper, something more personal. His expression hardened, his jaw tightening as if he was wrestling with something he didn't want to admit.
"Because here, you're safe," he said, his voice low but firm. "And you're not going back."
The finality of his words hit me like a brick. My stomach twisted into knots, and my breath caught in my throat. "Wh-what do you mean?" I stammered, not sure if I'd heard him correctly. "I can't stay here. I need to go back. I have a life—"
"No, you don't," he cut me off, his tone sharp and cold. "Not there. Not anymore."
I blinked, the weight of his words sinking in. Not anymore. As if my life had just been erased, as if everything I knew, everything I'd endured, was suddenly irrelevant. "You can't just decide that for me," I said, my voice rising. Anger burned in my chest now, igniting like a wildfire. "You can't just keep me here!"
He took a step closer, his presence looming over me, and I had to resist the urge to shrink back. "You're not going back," he repeated, his voice quiet but filled with an authority I couldn't argue with. "You're never going back."
"Why?" I demanded, my voice shaking with frustration. "Why do you care? You don't even know me! You can't just decide my life for me like I'm some... some pawn in your game."
His eyes flashed, something dangerous lurking behind them. "You're not a pawn, Amora. You're... important."
Important? The word hung in the air between us, thick with unspoken meaning. My heart raced, my mind scrambling to make sense of it all. Why would someone like him care about me, a girl with nothing? A girl from a broken home, with no future, no prospects. Why would I matter to him at all?
"What does that mean?" I whispered, my voice barely audible. "Why am I important?"
He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he stared at me, his gaze intense, as if he was trying to decide how much to tell me—or maybe how little. The silence stretched between us, thick and suffocating, until finally, he spoke.
"You don't need to know that right now," he said, his voice softer now, but still guarded. "All you need to know is that you're safe here. And you're not going back to that life."
I shook my head, disbelief coursing through me. "You can't just expect me to accept that. To accept... this. I have a father, I have a life back there, responsibilities—"
"That life was killing you," he interrupted, his words slicing through the air like a knife. "I saw it the moment I found you. You weren't living, Amora. You were surviving. Barely."
His words hit me harder than I wanted to admit. I had been surviving. Every day had been a struggle—a battle against the fear, the pain, the constant suffocating pressure of trying to be good enough, strong enough, silent enough to avoid my father's wrath. And I hadn't been winning. But still, it was my life. It was all I knew.
"And now what?" I asked, my voice breaking. "What am I supposed to do here? What am I supposed to be?"
He hesitated, his gaze softening just for a moment before he turned away, as if the answer was too much for him to say out loud. "You're supposed to heal," he said quietly, his back to me now. "That's all I'm asking of you. Heal, and in time, you'll understand."
Understand what? That was the question that clung to my mind, but I didn't ask it. I could tell from the way he held himself, from the tension in his shoulders, that he wasn't going to give me any more answers tonight. Not yet.
The silence between us grew heavier, and I felt the exhaustion settle into my bones. My mind was spinning with everything that had happened, everything that didn't make sense, but my body was begging for rest.
"I don't know how to do that," I whispered, more to myself than to him.
He turned back to face me, his expression softer now, more human. For a moment, he looked less like the cold, distant Alpha and more like someone who understood what it was like to carry too much pain. "You'll learn," he said quietly. "I'll help you."
The room seemed to close in on me, the weight of everything pressing down like a thousand unseen hands. I wanted to argue, to push back, but I didn't have the energy anymore. I was too tired, too overwhelmed, too lost in the swirl of everything that had happened. So I did the only thing I could.
I nodded.
"Get some rest," he said, his voice low and soft now, almost gentle. "We'll talk more tomorrow."
He turned to leave, his footsteps quiet against the floor, but just before he reached the door, I found my voice again.
"Wait," I called out, my heart pounding in my chest. "What's your name?"
He paused, his hand resting on the doorframe, and for a moment, I wasn't sure he was going to answer. Then, without turning around, he spoke.
"Zale."
And with that, he was gone, leaving me alone in the quiet, unfamiliar room with nothing but the weight of his name and the burning questions that still had no answers.