Chapter 3
Healing Hearts
Alexa
I mourn my fate in the corner of the small boat. My arms wrap around my knees, pulling myself tight as if I can keep the world out that way, but my tears refuse to stop.
I don’t understand why all of this keeps happening to me.
I have never known what it feels like to be fully loved.
My mother died when I was six, torn apart while protecting me from a rogue attack.
My father, once a powerful Alpha, passed away six months ago, taken by heart failure after years of fighting it with medication.
The strangest part is I don’t even remember any of it. Trauma, they say. All I know is that after his death, the house turns cold.
My stepmother and stepsister strip away what little place I have left and turn me into a servant in my own home. I never expected it. After years of love and care, she turned into something cruel the moment my father was gone.
I told myself I just have to endure. Just until I turn eighteen. Just until my wolf awakens strong enough to set me free.
Instead, my wolf’s power spirals out of control, wild and overwhelming. It leaves me unable to shift, branded as weak, incapable of controlling my own wolf spirit. I don’t even remember the night of the wolf blessing ritual.
I wake up in the hospital a week after the night of my wolf blessing ritual, and suddenly I can hear Mythril. A voice inside my head. But that is all she is. Just another presence in my thoughts, without any real power I can use.
My hand presses to my forehead as bitter laughter slips through my sobs. It’s almost funny, the way people trade cruelty for money without hesitation. Or how my mind tucks everything traumatic into the darkest corner of my soul and locks it away.
What hurts the most is Alpha Gabriel. Aren’t we mates? Aren’t we supposed to stay together forever? I even give my virginity to him, believing in the love between us.
But what did he do to me? He saw me being taken. He just stood there and watched me get dragged away, yet he didn’t lift a finger to help. Not even a step. Not a word. Nothing. That realization burns deeper than any wound in my chest.
And Alpha Alastair, who acknowledges our bond, still locks me in a dungeon like I’m nothing but trash to be thrown away. All because I’m not a virgin? What does that even matter in a marriage built on power and control?
Still, maybe it’s better this way. Better not to be claimed by him at all.
“Hey. Eat this, alright.”
The man’s voice cuts through my thoughts, low and steady. He hands me a small can of biscuits, then gives a brown leather jacket.
“Thank you,” I murmur, slipping the jacket over my shoulders.
“Here. Put this on your cuts.” He passes me a small bottle of healing ointment.
“Thanks,” I say quietly, taking it from him.
I don’t truly need it. My wounds will heal by morning. He’s a Lycan too. He should know that. Still, I accept it for what it is, kindness, and I cling to it.
The moment our fingers brush, a sharp jolt races through me, invisible and electric. We both freeze. The bottle slips from my hand and clatters to the floor.
What the hell was that?
“I’m sorry,” I blurt out.
I grab the bottle and clutch it to my chest. Silence stretches between us. I turn my face toward the dark water, rubbing the back of my neck as goosebumps rise across my skin.
“Get it together, Alexa.”
To hide my awkwardness, I rub the ointment into the scratches on my legs, then push up my sleeve. The sight makes me hiss. Red swelling blooms across my arm, bark marks left behind from the magic I poured into the tree earlier.
“Here. Let me help,” he says, reaching for the bottle.
“No, it’s fine. I’ve got it.” I shake my head.
“C’mon. Just let me.” His voice softens. “I ain’t gonna bite.”
Something in his tone settles me. Grounded. Real. I meet his eyes, and after a long moment, I nod. Carefully, like he’s wary of repeating whatever just happened, he takes the bottle from me.
I roll my sleeve higher and hold out my arm. The bruise looks worse up close, angry and deep. He spreads the cream gently over my skin. I flinch as the cool ointment sinks in, soothing and sharp all at once.
“You’ll be alright,” he says, glancing up at my face. “Stuff like this heals quick for Lycan like us.”
“Thank you,” I say, managing a small smile.
I know nothing about him. Only that he pulls me out of a place I thought would be my grave. Gratitude weighs heavy in my chest, tangled with confusion.
“My name’s Alexa Dawson,” I say. “Just call me Alexa. What about you?”
He stares at me for a long moment, then clears his throat. “Harlow. Harlow Phillips.” He screws the lid back on the bottle, jaw tight.
“Thank you,” I whisper again. “For saving me.” I hesitate, then ask the question that has been clawing at me. “Why did you do it?”
Harlow looks at me, his brow drawing together as he thinks longer than he probably means to. “Just felt right.”
I blink, caught off guard. That answer doesn’t quite sit right, but I don’t know how to challenge it.
“The tree roots,” he says after a moment, calm curiosity in his voice. “The way they wrapped around that guard earlier. That was you, right? Your magic?”
“Yeah.” I nod.
“Your arm,” he says, tilting his chin toward the bruises. “Is that from it?”
“Not directly, I think. Or maybe it’s because I held onto the tree trunk too tightly.” I lift my arm to look at it more closely. The bruises are still dark purple, damp now with healing ointment.
“I see…” His brow creases for a moment. “Thanks,” he adds. “For saving me.” A small smile tugs at his mouth.
“Just felt right,” I reply with a shrug, mimicking his earlier nonchalance.
He chuckles and looks down at his hands, hiding the dimple in his hard jaw. Silence stretches between us, filled only by the slap of waves against the hull and the steady hum of the engine.
“So,” I say quietly, breaking it at last. “Where are you taking me?”
He stands and looks back at me. “Somewhere safe.”
Then he turns away, steps into the control room, and shuts the door with a solid thud, leaving me alone in the passenger seat. I sit there, stunned. He risks his life to pull me free, yet offers nothing in explanation. The mystery twists tighter with every second.
The boat rocks beneath me, the sea rough but steady. Strangely, I don’t feel sick. It’s nothing like the Rider. The motion of the waves lulls me, my eyelids growing heavy. Exhaustion finally wins. I curl into myself, and for the first time in a week, I fall into a deep, dreamless sleep.
* * *
The heat of the sun wakes me from sleep. I blink, squinting, and the first thing I see is an unfamiliar brown ceiling. My breath catches as memory rushes back all at once, sharp and undeniable.
I push myself up and step out of the room. The moment I emerge onto the deck, the world hits me in full color. Blinding sunlight. Endless blue sea. A sky stretched so wide it feels like it could swallow me whole.
That’s when I see Harlow at the back of the deck, working out.
His upper body is bare, nothing on but a pair of beige shorts sitting low on his hips.
He lowers and lifts himself with steady control, muscular arms flexing as he holds a perfect push-up position, legs straight behind him.
Even as the waves rock the boat beneath us, his balance never wavers.
He moves like the motion belongs to him.
A silver necklace hangs from his neck, catching the sunlight. I squint and raise my hand to shield my eyes. The pendant is shaped like a wolf’s head. Something about it tugs at me, a familiar echo I can’t place, as if I have seen it before in another moment my mind refuses to open.
His back is tight, tan skin glistening under the morning sun.
Sweat trails down his spine, glowing faintly, and the sight of it sends a strange pull through me, instinctive and uninvited.
The scent reaches me next. Clean sweat mixed with mint and pine, sharp and grounding, wrapping around my senses before I can pull away.
His dark hair stands out against the brilliant ocean behind him. Sweat gathers at his brow as his eyes stay focused on the far end of the deck. He exhales with each slow bend of his elbows, lowering himself again, controlled, deliberate.
“Goddess. I want to be under there.”
I clap a hand over my mouth just in time, stifling the sound that nearly escapes when Mythril’s voice echoes the exact thought in my head.
Harlow senses me then. He lifts his gaze, pauses, and straightens up smoothly. He reaches for a small towel tucked into a wooden crate and wipes the sweat from his neck and shoulders.
“You’re up,” he says, voice easy, like it is no big thing at all.
I nod, unable to trust my voice. One hand grips my opposite arm, grounding myself, trying to rein in the thoughts racing far ahead of where I want them to be.
“Good,” he says. “We’ll grab a quick breakfast, then get moving again.”
He drapes the towel back into the crate and pulls on a white shirt, tugging it over his head. The moment the fabric settles against his skin, some of the tension inside me eases, even as disappointment flickers beneath it.
“We’re ditchin’ the boat,” he adds casually.
“Why?” I ask.
“We’re taking a bus.”
“Where to?” I press.
Harlow stills. He looks at me for a long moment, eyes unreadable, that same quiet assessment I have seen before. My chest tightens as questions crowd my mind. Why does he keep holding things back? What is he weighing? And why does part of me still want to trust him anyway?
“Just trust me,” he says, steady and sure. “It’s a safe place for you.”
* * *
“Are you some kind of courier for the Silver Moon Pack?” I ask Harlow on the bus.
He still wears that stiff expression, his forehead drawn tight. Three hours into the ride, he sits beside me in complete silence, not answering a single one of my questions. His arms are crossed over his chest, eyelids shut, pointedly ignoring me.
“Hey. Where are we actually headed? Are we going back to Silver Moon?” I try again, this time gently squeezing his arm.