Chapter nine

Kaia POV

He carried me inside, his arms firm around me like a groom carrying his bride. His eyes never met mine, cold and unreadable, but I couldn’t stop staring at him. No one—not a single wolf—had ever cared for me like this. Only my grandmother had shown me kindness, and yet this man made my heart swell in a way I couldn’t understand.

When we reached the main room, he set me gently on a wide sofa and turned away without a word. The air felt heavy, like I’d done something wrong. But I hadn’t said anything… had I?

I glanced around, my breath catching. The house was massive, every corner exuding the kind of wealth and elegance I’d only seen in my father’s pack house. Marble floors, towering walls, intricate designs that sparkled under the dim lights—it looked like a palace. Yet it was eerily silent. No maids. No guards. Not a single voice.

I shifted, wanting to get a better look, but my legs betrayed me. I slipped—and before I could fall, strong arms caught me.

Something clattered to the floor, but he didn’t let go. His grip stayed firm as his eyes locked with mine. My breath hitched. His face lowered, lips drawing dangerously close. My eyelids fluttered shut on instinct, a dizzy warmth coiling through me.

“What are you thinking?”

His deep voice snapped me back. I startled, eyes flying open.

I tried to pull away, but he held me still. “You’re unbelievable,” he muttered, his tone low but not unkind. “Sit down.”

He eased me back onto the sofa, then bent to pick up what had fallen—a small first aid box.

“You should’ve been more careful,” he said, his voice softer now.

Heat rushed to my cheeks. “I… I’m sorry for the inconvenience. Please forgive me.”

He only looked at me. That look—steady, unreadable—made my heart stumble. What’s wrong with me?

Inside, Lisa, my wolf, was practically spinning with excitement, as if she’d just won a lottery. But she gave me no answers.

Am I losing my mind? I wondered. Is this love? No. It couldn’t be. Gratitude, maybe. Yes, just gratitude.

He straightened, gathering the scattered supplies. Then, to my surprise, he carried the first aid box to a nearby cabinet and set it aside.

“I’ll get another one,” he said flatly. “That might be contaminated.”

I blinked. Contaminated? The house was spotless—sparkling clean. Who keeps extra first aid kits just in case one gets “infected”?

Is he a doctor? Or just impossibly clean? The thought only deepened the mystery of the man who had rescued me—and now held me captive in a palace of silence.

He returned quietly, a fresh first aid box in his hand. Without a word, he knelt in front of me and gently lifted my legs onto his lap. His movements were steady, precise—like someone who’d done this a hundred times before.

When the antiseptic touched my skin, a sharp sting shot through me. I winced, eyes squeezing shut, and instinctively clutched his arm.

He paused but didn’t pull away. When I dared to look again, his gaze was already on me—calm, unwavering. He didn’t tell me to move my hand. If anything, it felt as though my touch anchored him. Embarrassed, I bit my lower lip but didn’t let go.

“You’re seriously injured,” he said quietly, his voice edged with something almost like reprimand. “How could you run barefoot like that?”

“Survival instinct,” I murmured, trying to sound braver than I felt.

He gave a faint nod and continued, cleaning each cut with careful precision. When he finished with my feet, his eyes flicked up to my gown.

“Your knees,” he said. “They must be scraped too.”

I followed his gaze, suddenly aware of the fabric brushing against the raw skin beneath. I nodded.

“Should I lift the gown, or will you do it yourself?” he asked evenly.

My breath caught. Why ask like that? My heart pounded as I quickly shook my head and fumbled to lift the hem myself.

His touch was gentle but sure as he cleaned and wrapped the wounds on my knees. The closeness made my cheeks burn.

“All done,” he finally said, straightening.

“Thank you,” I whispered, forcing a small smile. “You’ve done so much for me.”

But a question lingered. His warmth from earlier—the soft teasing in the car—had vanished. Now he was distant again, like a wall had slid back into place.

“Did I… say something wrong?” I asked quietly. “Why do you feel different all of a sudden?”

He bit his lower lip, eyes shadowed. “This is just me,” he said flatly, and stood.

“Tell me what you’d like to eat,” he added after a pause. “You need food and some medicine before bed. It’ll help with the pain.”

“Anything you give me is fine,” I said, aware that I was already intruding on a stranger’s night.

“Meat?” he asked.

I nodded.

“Alright.”

He disappeared into the kitchen. I watched, half in awe, as he moved with practiced ease, the faint sound of sizzling filling the silent house. Only the moon knew how someone this striking could also be so capable.

Soon he returned with a plate of steaming fried meat.

“You’re fast,” I said, surprised.

“I already had it ready,” he replied, setting the plate down. “Just needed to steam it.”

He sat beside me, the warmth of his presence making my pulse quicken.

“You must love meat,” I teased, trying to lighten the air.

He gave a faint, knowing smile. “Doesn’t every wolf?”

I nodded, chewing slowly, the warmth of the food settling into my aching body. But as I watched him, something struck me like a sudden jolt.

I never asked his name.

And I never told him mine.

The realization made my stomach twist.

“What’s your name?” I blurted, my voice softer than I intended. “I didn’t ask before because… I never thought I’d end up here. My name is Kaia. And you are…?”

The question hit him like a blow.

The spoon in his hand slipped, clattering against the plate. His eyes widened for the briefest heartbeat before a guarded darkness slid over them. The air between us tightened, thick enough to choke.

He didn’t move. Didn’t answer. Just stared at me as if my words had reached someplace he’d sworn to keep hidden.