Kelowna's P.O.V
There was something wrong with her eyes. I couldn't name it at first—not fear, not anger, not even the cracked-glass look she'd worn when she first collapsed in front of me.
No, this was different.
This was… hollow.
A slow, cold withdrawal.
Like something inside her had let go. I watched her, silent, even as my own words hung in the air between us:
"Give me one good reason I shouldn't end you right here."
She hadn't flinched. Hadn't trembled. She had just looked me in the eye and said, like it was a fact, like it didn't hurt anymore—
"You can't kill what's already dead."
And for the first time in years, I felt something unfamiliar stir at the edge of my senses.
Not guilt.
Not pity.
But… warning.
My wolf pricked at the back of my skull. A quiet, sharp pulse.
Something's wrong.
She wasn't just scared. She was finished. And suddenly, I realized—she wasn't trying to save herself anymore. She was saying goodbye. My eyes dropped, scanning her posture. The subtle lean to her left. Her fingers twitching at her side. The tension in her jaw. I stepped forward, slowly.
"Karmella…"
She moved. Too fast for her condition. Too fast for someone who hadn't eaten in days. She dropped to the side of the bed, fingers snatching the rusted sliver of metal wedged beneath the cot frame. It gleamed for half a second. And then—
She raised it.
Not toward me, but towards her own throat.
And I moved. Time shattered. I didn't think. Didn't calculate risk or consequence. My body moved on instinct. Raw, unfiltered alpha instinct.
One stride. Two.
My hand caught her wrist mid-swing—just as the edge kissed skin. A drop of blood welled at her throat. One drop. One second more and she would've been gone. The metal clattered to the floor, and Karmella collapsed into me—not from trust, not from surrender, but because her body gave out.
I caught her. Chest to chest. Skin trembling against skin. I could feel her heartbeat. Barely.
So faint. So far away.
My hand was still wrapped around her wrist, and I realized I was gripping it too tightly. Her breath came in a shudder, and then another, as if even her lungs were unsure she was allowed to keep living.
I stared down at her, stunned.
What just happened?
Why—Why did I stop her? She was a threat. She was a rogue. An intruder. A liar.
But in that split second, when I'd seen the blade rise, something inside me had… snapped. A silent roar in my head.
Not her.
I let go of her wrist. My hands were shaking.
My hands—were shaking.
Her blood was on my palm. Just a dot. Just enough to prove it had been real. She hadn't been bluffing. She had meant to die.
Right there.
Right in front of me. And somehow, the thought of her death…It didn't feel like a victory.
It felt like a loss.
My hands were still on her. Warm skin. Fragile pulse. Bones too sharp from hunger. She was too close.
Too real.
Her blood smeared across my palm like a brand. And that feeling—that unfamiliar lurch in my chest—was still there, coiled and burning. I stared at her, limp in my grip, eyes dazed, lips parted in a breathless fog.
Why did you do that?
The question rose inside me like bile, but I couldn't say it. Because I already knew the answer. She hadn't tried to run. Hadn't attacked me. Hadn't even pleaded. She had tried to escape with the one thing I couldn't rule over.
Death.
Not to hurt me. But because she had given up. A fire exploded in my chest before I could stop it.
I growled.
Low. Animalistic.
And then—without thinking—I shoved her off of me. Her body hit the cot hard, a gasp escaping her lips as she collapsed sideways, too weak to catch herself. Not pain. Just confusion. She blinked slowly, like she wasn't even sure if she was still alive. I stepped back, breathing hard. Disgust twisted through me. Not at her. At myself. My hands were shaking again.
"Damn it," I hissed under my breath.
My wolf, Godric, stirred violently inside me.
Pacing. Growling.
Not in rage—but in some restless unease I didn't know how to name. It made my skin itch. My chest tighten. I hated it.
The door burst open. Marcus stepped in, immediately sensing the tension thick in the air like smoke after lightning. His eyes flicked to Karmella—crumpled on the cot, dazed, blood on her throat—and then to me.
I didn't speak.
I didn't have to. My power still cracked in the room like static, and Marcus could feel it.
I knew I didn't look like a man in control.
I looked like a man unraveling.
I turned away from them both, jaw clenched, dragging my palm down my face as if trying to wipe away the moment. My voice was sharp. Final.
"Put her under watch."
Marcus raised a brow. "Guard or watch?"
My glare was ice. "Watch."
"Orders?"
"No harm. No contact. No questions. She breathes—she eats—she rests. She is not to be touched."
Marcus blinked, taking in every word.
"...She tried to end it, didn't she?"
I didn't answer. I didn't need to. My silence was louder than any confirmation. Marcus glanced at the girl again. Saw the burn marks. The haunted way she stared through the wall like she wasn't sure she was still in her body. And something in him changed too, I saw it. I turned toward the door but paused. Just for a heartbeat.
My voice dropped, lower now. Tighter.
"She meant it."
Marcus didn't respond. My fists curled at my sides.
"She wasn't bluffing. Not some desperate plea for mercy. She meant to die."
Godric stirred again—restless, angry, aching. And I hated it. Because I didn't understand any of it. Not why I stopped her. Not why my wolf was reacting like this. And especially not why the thought of her dying here, in my kingdom, made something in my chest feel like it might fracture.
"She's a rogue," I muttered under my breath. "She's a damn rogue."
And yet I'd caught her like she mattered. Like I cared.
I strode from the room without another word.
And for the first time in a long time, I didn't know who I was walking away angry at, her—or at myself.