The Feral Alpha's Captive-Chapter 50: No!

🔹THORNE

But it was different on her.

Our eyes met.

Grey, wide and startled. And just like that—

The pain vanished. It did not dull nor eas

Gone.

The bond sang, a resonance so pure and overwhelming it stole the breath from my lungs. Warmth flooded through my chest, spreading outward, chasing away the throbbing agony in my shoulder, the pounding in my skull, the exhaustion weighing down my limbs.

I stared at her.

At the way her lips parted slightly in surprise. At the way her hands stilled, towel forgotten. At the way her gaze traced over me—taking in the blood, the torn fabric, the way I was standing too rigidly, favoring my injured side.

Then I winced.

The movement jarred my shoulder, and Umbra howled—not in rage, but in pain, a sound that reverberated through my bones.

Althea’s eyes went wide.

"What happened?" she breathed, and then she was moving—rushing forward, closing the distance between us in three quick steps.

It shocked me.

Her concern. Her immediacy.

The way she didn’t hesitate. Even the conditioned tremor in her voice did not sound so apparent. 𝒇𝓻𝓮𝓮𝙬𝙚𝒃𝒏𝓸𝙫𝒆𝙡.𝓬𝓸𝒎

"It’s nothing," I started, but her hands were already reaching for me, fingers hovering just above the torn fabric of my shirt, and—

Her touch landed.

Cool. Soothing. Like water over burns.

The relief was so sudden, so complete, that I nearly staggered.

"Sit," she ordered, her voice firmer than I’d ever heard it. "Sit down. Now."

I was so shocked, I obeyed.

She guided me toward the chair near the window, her hands steady on my uninjured arm, her movements careful but decisive. The moment I sank into the seat, she was there—kneeling beside me, fingers already working at the collar of my shirt, peeling away blood-soaked fabric.

"Four parallel gashes," she said, examining the wound. "Claw-torn, not clean—see how the flesh pulls apart here. This one struck deep, near the shoulder blade. Another hand’s width lower and it would have opened the main vessel of blood of the arm. You would have emptied yourself on the ground before help ever reached you."

I blinked.

That was... remarkably accurate medical terminology for someone who should never have worked a day in her life.

Her hands moved over the wound, not touching but assessing, her gaze sharp and focused. The pain was still there—dull now, manageable—but wherever her fingers hovered, the throbbing eased.

"I need to see the full extent," she said. "Can you—"

I shifted, trying to give her better access.

Pain lanced through my shoulder, white-hot and vicious.

I hissed.

"Don’t move," she snapped, her hand pressing lightly against my chest to hold me still. "You’ll make it worse. Just—stay."

Her tone was scolding. Authoritative even with a quiver that laced every syllable.

Like she’d forgotten who I was.

Like she’d forgotten to be afraid.

Then she caught herself.

Her hand froze against my chest. Her eyes lifted to mine.

Steel-grey meeting... whatever the hell color mine were behind the mask I’d finally removed after stumbling into the room.

The air thickened.

Tension coiled between us, tight and suffocating and charged with something I didn’t want to name.

Her breath hitched.

She pulled back sharply—too sharply—and her foot caught on my leg.

She stumbled.

Instinct took over.

I grabbed her.

My injured shoulder screamed as I reached out, fingers closing around her waist, hauling her back before she could hit the floor.

Pain detonated through the wound, the movement tearing at barely-healing flesh.

But I held her.

She gasped, her hands flying to my shoulders to steady herself—then jerking away the moment she realized what she’d done, where she’d touched.

"I’m sorry," she stammered, trying to pull back, to put distance between us. "I didn’t mean to—I shouldn’t have—"

But I didn’t let go.

Couldn’t.

Because the moment her weight settled against me, the moment her scent surrounded me, the moment her presence filled every empty space in my awareness—

The pain vanished again.

Completely.

Her wide eyes stared into mine, and I saw it—the same realization dawning on her face.

The bond.

The pull.

The undeniable, inescapable truth neither of us wanted to acknowledge.

"You’re hurt," she whispered, her voice trembling now. "You need to let me—"

"You’re helping," I said quietly.

She blinked. "What?"

"Your touch." My voice was rougher than I intended. "It’s... helping. The pain—it’s not as bad when you’re close."

Her breath caught.

For a moment, neither of us moved.

Then slowly—so slowly I thought she might bolt at any second—she settled her hand back on my uninjured shoulder.

The relief was immediate.

"Okay," she breathed. "Okay. Then... stay still. Let me see what I can do."

And against every instinct screaming at me to push her away, to maintain distance, to protect what little control I had left—

I let her.

—

🦋ALTHEA

I worked through the gashes carefully, every pass of my fingers measured, deliberate. The skin around the wounds was hot—angry—but already knitting in places where the bond had softened the damage. Still, this was not something magic alone could be trusted to finish.

Especially not his magic.

My hands stilled for a moment when I felt it.

Not pain.

Awareness.

The unmistakable pull—tightening, curious, warm.

No, I thought sharply, directing the reprimand inward. Absolutely not.

The bond responded anyway, humming like it had just been praised.

Behave, I warned it. This is not the time.

I reached for the salve jar instead, grounding myself in the ritual. The scent of crushed pine resin and nightbloom filled the air as I smeared it gently along the torn flesh. He barely flinched.

That, too, unsettled me.

"You should be screaming," I muttered.

His breath huffed out, something between a laugh and a wince. "Disappointing you again."

I ignored that.

Bandages came next—clean linen, wrapped snug but not tight, layered carefully over his shoulder and across his chest. He didn’t resist. Didn’t question. Just watched me with an intensity that prickled my skin.

Too aware.

Too quiet.

My words faltered.

Because his gaze had dropped.

To my mouth and my mind might have fractured.

His stare was not leering. Not crude.

It was not even a stare, it was more of a loaded glance.

Like it had slipped before he could stop it.

I felt it then—a heat that had nothing to do with magic and everything to do with proximity.

I tied the final knot and leaned back. "There. You’re wrapped. You need rest. Actual rest. No brooding. No summoning shadows. No—"

His hand lifted.

Slow. Careful.

As if he weren’t sure he was allowed.

I stepped back immediately, heart skidding. "No."

The word came out sharper than I meant.

His hand froze midair, then fell back to his side. He clenched it, avoiding my eyes. "There is my blood on your lip."