The moonlight filtered through the cracks of the rotting stable roof, casting fractured lines across the dirt-streaked floor. Elara's breath fogged in the cold night air as she yanked the final chain taut around the iron support beam. The man—no, the wolf—at her feet lay motionless, chest rising and falling in shallow bursts.
Kael Thorne, drenched in blood and venom, was finally contained.
For now.
Elara knelt beside him, fingers trembling as she uncorked the glass vial of crushed mandrake and valerian, their sharp scent mingling with the iron tang of blood. With a practiced hand, she dripped it into his mouth, forcing his jaw open when his muscles resisted.
He choked once, then went still again.
She didn't trust the calm.
Rising slowly, she stepped back, wiping sweat and dried blood from her brow. "You'll sleep through sunrise," she muttered, more to reassure herself than him. "And when you wake, maybe you'll be something less than a monster."
But even in unconsciousness, Kael's features were feral. His skin shimmered faintly with a silver sheen where the rune-chains touched him, and a faint snarl ghosted his lips like a reflex, as if he dreamed of tearing through bone.
Elara turned away from him and walked to the opposite corner of the barn, where a crumbling hayloft still offered some shelter. She collapsed there, arms wrapped around her knees, heart thundering behind her ribs.
She should have run.
She should have left him in the forest.
But every time she closed her eyes, she saw her sister's pale face, sweating through fever. The village healer had warned her: "Only Lycan blood can reverse the rot." And now she had a source.
A dangerous, unpredictable, blood-soaked one.
She would bleed him herself if she had to.
The first night passed in stifled silence, broken only by the crackle of the wind and Kael's uneven breaths. On the second morning, Elara returned with water, stale bread, and a shard of half-clean cloth.
He hadn't moved.
His pulse, though faint, was steady.
She approached warily, crouching beside him, brushing aside matted strands of black hair to examine the burn around his neck where the silver had bitten in.
"I'm not your enemy," she whispered, unsure who she was trying to convince.
But then—
His fingers twitched.
Elara froze.
Kael's head turned, golden eyes flicking open like a beast roused from hibernation.
He didn't lunge.
He didn't speak.
He just stared.
And in that stare was something worse than rage: calculation.
She forced herself to breathe. "Drink this," she said, holding the cup toward his lips.
Kael didn't move.
But when she placed it near his mouth, he snapped forward without warning—chains clanking tight—as his teeth sank into her arm just below the elbow.
Elara screamed, jerking back, pain burning like fire up her spine. She stumbled, crashing into a broken saddle post.
Kael's eyes gleamed with violent amusement. His lips were wet with her blood.
"I warned you," he rasped.
She clutched her arm, blood seeping through her sleeve. "You think I care about your warnings?"
"I think you're an idiot," he said, voice like gravel soaked in venom. "You feed the wolf, and you wonder why it bites."
Elara didn't flinch this time. "I chained you. I drugged you. I dragged you out of a forest you were meant to die in. If I wanted you gone, I could've slit your throat in your sleep."
Kael's smile was slow and sharp. "So why didn't you?"
Silence.
Then, softly, "Because you're not the monster."
He barked a humorless laugh. "No? Wait until I'm hungry."
That night, the fever hit.
Kael thrashed in the chains, skin slick with sweat, eyes unfocused.
"Elara—" he growled in his delirium.
She jolted upright.
He said her name.
Not "girl." Not "pet." Not "idiot."
Her name.
She crawled to him, hesitating only a moment before dipping the cloth in water and pressing it to his forehead. He growled again, body seizing—but didn't strike.
"Elara," he repeated, voice raw, strained.
She gently held his hand, watching as his claws withdrew, inch by inch, back into his skin.
"You're not dying," she whispered. "I won't let you."
He opened his eyes for a heartbeat.
Then leaned forward—not to bite, not to attack—but to rest his head lightly against her palm.
His tongue flicked out, licking the blood that still coated her wrist.
And then he whispered:
"You smell like absolution."
Elara's breath caught.
"Too bad I sold my soul long before you."