The Royal Alpha

Chapter 17: Regretting the Rejection

Pain is what wakes me.

Not sharp, not sudden—but a slow, spreading heat, as if fire has been poured into my veins and left to burn. It crawls beneath my skin, relentless, impossible to ignore, until my body has no choice but to surface from the dark.

My lashes flutter open.

The first thing I register is warmth. Solid. Moving. Rising and falling beneath my cheek in a steady rhythm.

For one dizzy second, panic flares—until I recognize the scent.

Pine. Smoke. Steel.

Fenris.

My gaze drifts unfocused across a familiar blur of stone and shadow before the realization finally settles: the school grounds. The outer path leading back toward the infirmary.

I'm safe.

The relief is so sudden it almost hurts.

And then my awareness sharpens.

Hard flesh. Heat. The unmistakable rise and fall of a chest beneath my head.

Oh.

I'm in his arms.

My breath stutters as I tilt my head upward, following the line of his throat to his face. Fenris's jaw is clenched tight enough to ache just looking at it, the muscle jumping as he moves. His skin is drawn taut with restrained fury, his posture rigid, protective—every inch of him coiled around control barely held in place.

The faint sting on my cheek intensifies, sparking where my skin brushes his. Not pain—something else. The same strange, electric heat I felt the first time we touched. The first time he looked at me like the world had narrowed to a single point.

The realization makes my chest tighten.

My movement draws his attention instantly. Fenris dips his head toward me, and the moment our eyes meet, my stomach twists.

They are black.

Not darkened blue. Not shadowed.

Pitch black—like the sky on a moonless night.

There is no softness in them. No warmth. Only a terrifying, absolute stillness.

He looks... empty.

Not calm. Not detached.

Contained.

And somehow that frightens me more than rage ever could.

I fight the absurd, aching urge to reach up and touch his jaw, to ease the tension I can practically feel radiating off him. But my hand doesn't move.

I don't deserve that comfort.

Not after rejecting him.
Not after running.
Not after getting myself taken.

Guilt coils heavy and sick in my stomach.

Still—gratitude crashes in just as hard.

If he hadn't found me...

The image flashes without warning—red eyes, cruel hands, breath too close, the promise of pain whispered like amusement. My body reacts before my mind does, a shudder tearing through me as a broken sound escapes my throat.

A whimper.

Fenris slows immediately, his stride shortening from a run to a measured jog. His grip tightens—not painfully, but with unmistakable urgency—as he looks down at me.