"Don't."
One word. The healer's hands dropped to his sides.
There was nothing more torturous than being rock-hard while carrying a dying omega. It was the only label he had for her, but it didn't sit right.
"Protocols—" a second healer attempted, which took courage. Short-lived. He fucked off mid-syllable.
The thought of pinning her against a wall and thrusting kept replaying in Dexmon's mind. The second he killed the thought, his wolf resurrected it.
Aegon: Taste her. Touch her.
Dexmon: Go to sleep.
The girl had stopped making sounds somewhere between the clearing and the castle, and every fiber in his body screamed he needed to fix this now.
A low vibration started in his sternum. That was new.
No.
No, no, no.
Aegon: Healing vibration.
Dexmon: Not a thing. I swear to every god, turn it off.
The purring grew louder. A passing guard glanced at Dexmon with visible confusion.
Dexmon walked faster, tightening his core, trying to stop it. The purr adapted. It found a new route through his chest and came out louder.
Alaric Kestrel, his Master Healer, fell into step beside him, already assessing her. "How long has she been bleeding?"
"Too long. She took multiple stabbings." Saying it aloud tasted like failure and Dexmon Drakenfell did not fail.
Aegon: That healer is too slow. I could heal faster.
Dexmon: You don't have healing magic.
Aegon: I would lick the wound.
Alaric's hands glowed gold over her wounds, pushing healing magic into her as they walked. Her wounds should've closed, but her skin barely knit.
Aegon: Mate is in pain.
Dexmon: Don't call her that.
Alaric cursed and pulled his hands back. "I need to take a closer look. Hand her over. We'll get her stabilized."
The healer read the room. Out came the flask. One long swig. He had the distinct feeling he was going to need every drop.
Without a word, Dexmon shouldered past him into a private chamber reserved for royals, and laid her on the bed gently.
The hearth and every torch roared to life on their own. He didn't notice.
Aegon: The fire is a nice touch. Now we get on top and spread her legs.
Dexmon: What the actual hell is wrong with you?
Alaric followed him into the room, rolled up his sleeves, and began examining her, gold light pouring from his hands into her body.
"Silver burns. Fortunately they'll fade. Unmarked."
A dark heat flared in Dexmon's core, making his blood thrum. Unmarked meant no mating bite. He already knew that. But knowing it and hearing it were two different things.
Aegon:Bite him.
Dexmon: No.
Aegon:A corrective bite. On the hand. Wolves do it all the time.
"SHIT." Alaric's usual composure evaporated and his magic surged brighter, almost desperate. He looked up. "She needs blood now."
"Will Alpha blood work?"
Dexmon knew fated mate blood was always a perfect match. But he said Alpha to cover that tiny detail, which worked well because Alpha blood had a higher concentration of healing properties than any other rank.
"That would be our best bet with her. But—"
"Give her mine." He was already rolling up his sleeve.
The needle went in clean, and Alaric worked fast, knowing better than to ask 'are you sure.'
When the blood was running, he tilted her chin slightly, turning her face toward the firelight, then froze. "Well I'll be damned."
Dexmon's eyes cut to him. "What."
"She looks identical to a Luna Queen I treated years ago," he replied. "These genetics aren't something you forget."
"Luna Queen of which pack?"
"Frostborne." Alaric ticked points off on his fingers as he went. "Different continent. Ice kingdom. Slaughtered in one night. Six years ago. No survivors. No one knows who or why."
The room felt smaller.
"How big are we talking?" Dexmon asked. He had memorized the political map of every continent by age ten and had never heard of Frostborne.
"Best estimate, a million wolves," Alaric replied. "Smaller than most packs in Skardos, but their history went back thousands of years. Borders closed to outsiders. Everyone inside was sealed behind ice walls."
Dexmon stared at the girl. She looked maybe eighteen, which meant she would have been a child. "How did she get out?"
"That's the question, isn't it." Alaric's tone slipped into something more careful. "Because if I'm right, then whoever did it missed one. And she's been out there, alone, for six years."
Dexmon understood exactly what that meant. An omega without a pack had no protection, no scent cover, no territory. Every rogue, every slaver, every border wolf on the continent would have smelled opportunity.
Whoever hurt her made an enemy they didn't know existed yet. The protectiveness that flooded him wasn't rational, wasn't earned, and wasn't optional.
When he finally spoke, his voice was lower. Flatter. The version of himself that gave orders on battlefields.
"She is not to be logged as a guest or patient."
Alaric glanced down at her, his brows furrowing. "That removes her rights—"
"Until I decide what she is, she is no one."
"An unmarked omega that looks like her, in the royal healing suite, with no paper trail." Alaric's tone was flat. "You understand that every wolf who walked this corridor tonight caught her scent already, right?"
Dexmon didn't answer.
Aegon: Get in that bed with her.
Dexmon:There is no version of reality.
Aegon:You won't even have to do anything. Just lie there. I promise nothing will happen. I'll be calm.
Nothing about the energy behind those words suggested calm.
Aegon:I can hear you doubting me. That's hurtful.
Gold light flickered beneath the girl's skin. Alaric blinked as if his eyes were deceiving him. They weren't.
"And there it is," he muttered, reaching for his flask.
Aegon: Tell me you saw that.
Dexmon didn't answer. He turned his back to her and stared out the window.
Whatever she was, whatever that gold light meant, it wasn't his problem. He was already chained to a princess.
Agnes Viremont, daughter of one of the most powerful Alpha Kings in Skardos. The betrothal was political, binding two packs through marriage the way treaties bound nations. Breaking it would cost Drakenfell an alliance his father had spent years building.
He knew that.
The second Alaric cleared the doorway, Dexmon was rummaging through the bathing chamber cabinets, about to do the most un-Dexmon Drakenfell thing imaginable.
He ran a cloth under warm water and returned to her bedside. Then he gently wiped blood from her neck, her collarbone, her wrists.
His hands were steady. His breathing wasn't.
Electricity shot through his fingers everywhere their skin touched. She gave no visible reaction.
Aegon:Did you feel that?
Dexmon:Obviously I felt that.
Her forehead was scorching under his hand. Wolves didn't run fevers.
Dexmon: She's burning up.
Aegon: Silver poisoning slows healing. I can barely feel her wolf.
Every instinct he had said to get in that bed, wrap himself around her, and let her fever break against his skin.
"Fuck it."
He pulled his shirt over his head and lay down beside her. Carefully, he drew her back against his chest, every line of her body fitting perfectly with his, as if she were made for him.
Aegon: She was, you dingbat.
Every child in Skardos grew up hearing stories of fated mates feeling each other's emotions and pain. Hearing it and living it were two very different things.
A noise escaped Dexmon's throat, somewhere between a groan and a sigh of relief.
Even unconscious, he could feel her pain lessening by the second. Heat passed from her body into his, like he was taking the fever from her.
"Give it all to me. I'll take it."
The tension in her shoulders eased and her breathing steadied, matching his rhythm. This was helping her. He didn't need a healer to tell him that.
"I don't know your name yet. But I want to."
He pressed his mouth to the back of her head. Not a kiss. Just lip contact.
Aegon: Say it with me. OURS.
Dexmon: This is temporary. Just to help her heal. Nothing more.
For the first time in years, his mind went quiet.
Three minutes later, the notorious playboy prince of Skardos, who had never stayed long enough for the spooning part, was out cold.
Across the keep, Fin Shadowclaw stood at his window, gripping the stone ledge, nostrils flaring.
He was Alpha King to the largest pack in Skardos and had come to Drakenfell for a trade negotiation. That was it. Commerce. Numbers. Borders. Extremely boring, extremely important, and as of three hours ago, extremely irrelevant.
A scent had triggered a physical reaction that he knew well, but hadn't felt in over five years.
He shook his head, but reached for his wolf.
Am I scenting a second chance fated mate?
His wolf didn't answer.
The gods, it appeared, had a sense of humor and zero respect for political consequences.