Chapter Four
Aria
Morning light hurts my eyes.
I blink several times before I realize the brightness is sunlight, real sunlight, pouring through the window. Warm and gentle. Not the harsh, artificial bulbs of the Hunters’ cages.
The air even smells different. Cedar. Clean linens. A faint, steady canine scent in the room’s corner.
Silas.
My heart stutters.
He’s sitting exactly where he was when I fell asleep, back in the chair, long legs stretched out, arms folded loosely, head tipped back against the wall as he snores softly.
He didn’t leave. Not once.
Shock shivers through me, small but sharp. It doesn’t make sense. No one has ever stayed. Not for someone like me. Not without wanting something in return.
I sit up slowly, the blanket wrapped tight around me. The movement makes him stir. His eyes open instantly, alert, and sharp as a blade. They soften instantly when they land on me.
“You’re awake,” he says quietly. “How do you feel?”
How do I feel? I don’t know. I’ve forgotten how to name feelings. Fear is easy. It’s the default. But this, this new thing, fills my chest like smoke, confusing and heavy.
“Okay,” I say tentatively not sure how else to answer.
He watches me too closely. “You’re shaking.”
I look down. My hands tremble against the blanket. I curl them into fists. “It’ll stop.”
He doesn’t believe me. I can see the protest forming, but he swallows it. “Are you hungry?” he asks instead.
My stomach tightens painfully at the thought of food. The Hunters fed us irregularly. Sometimes too much, sometimes not at all. I never knew when the next meal was coming, so hunger became something I pushed down until it gave up and curled in on itself.
Now even thinking about eating makes my throat close.
“Not really,” I mumble.
He nods, but his eyes flick toward the untouched tray Peyton left yesterday. “You need to eat.”
The command should make me bristle. Should make old panic climb my spine. But his tone isn’t forceful. It’s soft. Almost pleading. Like he actually cares that I am starving myself.
“Maybe later,” I whisper.
He exhales, the sound rough and frustrated. Not at me, but at everything that put me here.
His shoulders ease slightly. “Later is fine.”
Silence stretches between us, not uncomfortable but ... full. Like he’s waiting for me to choose the pace. Like he’s offering space instead of taking it.
It’s new. And unsettling. But also, kind.
“I need...” I swallow. My voice shakes. “I need to wash.”
His eyes sharpen with concern, but he stays seated. “Peyton prepared the adjoining bathroom. Clothes are in the drawer. No one else will come in.”
No one else. Just him. Oddly, that doesn’t scare me, and I don’t know what to do with that realization. I clutch the blanket tighter around me and slide off the bed with unsteady legs. Silas starts to stand, but I freeze.
“Don’t,” I whisper.
He sinks instantly back into the chair, hands raising slightly in surrender. “I won’t move.”
The obedience, immediate and instinctive, shocks me. Wolves don’t listen to other shifter breeds. And I can feel the Alpha energy rolling off him. He shouldn’t listen when I command, and yet he does.
I turn toward the bathroom door and walk slowly, each step a reminder that I’m out in the open. No bars. No metal floor. No buzzing lights. My skin prickles with every sound, every shift of air.
When I reach the bathroom and close the door behind me, a faint tremor runs through me. I press my back against the wood and inhale deeply.
I’m alone. Really alone.
The mirror shows a stranger. Hollowed cheeks. Dirty, tangled hair. Eyes too big for my face and bruises in varying stages of healing. Fine cuts along my arms. A scar at my shoulder that still burns when I breathe too deep.
The Hunters took everything—my strength, my pride, my leopard. My throat closes as sadness crashes down on me.
I turn on the shower, letting the steam fog the mirror. The heat seeps into my stiff muscles. I strip slowly, each movement a fight between fear and necessity.
The water hits my skin and I almost cry at the sensation. Warmth. Cleanliness. Things most people take for granted. Things I have craved for so long it feels like it’s all I’ve ever wanted.
I stand under the spray for too long, letting it wash the filth and memories away, but nothing cleans the inside of my chest or cleanses the stains from my soul.
When I finish, I wrap myself in a towel and dig through the drawer Peyton stocked. Soft clothes. Loose and comfortable. They fit and that alone feels wrong. When I re-enter the room, Silas stands immediately, then stops himself halfway, freezing like a statue.
His eyes travel the length of me, not in hunger, not in dominance, not in any way that triggers old panic. Just ... checking if I’m okay.
His voice is molten gravel. “You look better.”
I swallow. “I showered.”
His lips twitch. Almost a smile. “I noticed.”
Heat flares along my cheeks. Embarrassing and unexpected.
I move back to the bed, and he sits once I’m settled.
This time closer but still not close enough to touch.
I wrap my arms around my knees. My leopard curls deeper into my chest, scared but curious.
She still doesn’t trust him. She doesn’t trust wolves. She doesn’t trust anything.
But she watches him.
And she doesn’t hide as deeply as she did yesterday.
The bond flickers again, bright pain, then warmth, then nothing. I flinch and so does he.
“You felt that?” he asks quietly.
I nod.
“It’s unpredictable,” he murmurs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Like something’s trying to connect but can’t.”
“It hurts,” I whisper before I can stop myself.
He goes still. “Where?”
I press my hand over my sternum. “Here. Like something tearing.”
He closes his eyes briefly, jaw clenched. “I know.”
A tremor runs through him, like he’s fighting the urge to come closer. My chest tightens. I don’t want him closer. But I do want him closer. Both truths strain inside me.
I look away. “It’s supposed to ... feel different.”
“Yeah,” he breathes. “It is.”
Silence again, but heavier this time. Thicker. A knock breaks the tension. Silas stands instantly, moving toward the door with slow, cautious steps. He cracks it open just enough to see who it is.
Peyton’s soft voice filters through. “How is Aria?”
Aria. Not the leopard. Not the captive. Not the broken thing in a cage. Just Aria.
Silas doesn’t fully open the door. “Improving. Slowly.”
“Can I come in?” Peyton asks gently.
He glances back at me, silently asking.
My stomach knots, but Peyton’s voice is soft and strangely comforting. Silas stands like a wall between me and anyone else waiting for my reply. I nod and he lets her in.
Peyton smiles warmly, not approaching the bed. She sits in the chair Silas had occupied, leaving him to stand near the wall.
“I’m glad you’re awake,” Peyton says softly. “I brought broth. I know solid food is hard right now.”
She sets the tray on the small table beside me but doesn’t push it closer. “I don’t want to overwhelm you. You choose if and when.”
Choice. That word feels foreign. Silas’s eyes soften as he watches my expression.
Peyton continues, “We’ll have Xavia check on you in a bit. She’s gentle. She’ll ask before doing anything.”
My chest tightens. “I don’t ... I don’t want anyone touching me.”
Peyton nods. “Then she won’t. We’ll adapt.”
I blink. Adapt? To me? No pack adapts to outsiders. No pack bends to something fragile. No pack gives a damn about someone who can’t contribute. But she says it like it's nothing. Like it’s expected.
Peyton glances at Silas. “She’s yours.”
Silas stiffens. “I know.”
My breath stops. Mine. A word I both crave and fear.
Peyton stands, giving me a warm nod. “Rest. Eat when you can. Xavia will be by tomorrow instead.”
When she leaves, Silas closes the door quietly and returns to the chair, but this time he sits closer. I pull the blanket tighter around myself.
“Do you want me to move back?” he asks softly.
I hesitate. “No.”
His shoulders ease. Minutes stretch. My stomach growls softly, traitorously. Silas pretends he doesn't hear it, but his jaw tick tightens. He’s worrying. But he doesn’t command that I eat, doesn’t push me to talk. He is simply concerned.
I reach for the tray slowly. The broth is warm, and it smells good. Familiar. My throat tightens painfully. I sip carefully, quietly. Every swallow feels strange.
Silas doesn’t move or speak. He just watches me with something like reverence. When I finish half the bowl, he exhales like he’s been holding his breath the whole time.
“It’s a good start,” he murmurs.
I set it down. “I’m tired again.”
He nods and stands. “I’ll let you sleep.”
A spike of panic shoots through me. My voice catches. “Silas, wait...”
He stops instantly, turning back, eyes sharp. “Yeah?”
“Don’t leave.” The words tumble out before I can stop them.
I blink at him, startled by my own voice. My heart slams against my ribs. What am I doing? Why am I asking that? I should want him gone. I should want space. But I don’t. At least not from him.
Not when the nightmares still cling to my skin. Not when the bond flickers painfully. Not when the world feels too big and too loud and too unfamiliar. Not when he’s the only thing anchoring me.
Silas inhales slowly, chest rising. A deep, controlled breath that screams with unspoken emotion. “I’m not going anywhere,” he says softly.
He returns to the chair, closer than before. Not touching. Not reaching. Just ... being there. I slide under the blanket, curling on my side so I can keep looking at him.
My leopard lifts her head for the first time since the cage, sniffing the air toward him. Hesitant but curious. Silas watches my movements like they’re sacred. Like I’m something precious instead of something broken. Like I matter.
“Sleep,” he murmurs. “I’m right here.”
I don’t trust easily. I don’t trust wolves. I don’t trust promises. But something in his voice sinks into me like sunlight warming cold stone. My breathing slows and my eyes close. And for the first time since the Hunters took me I sleep without seeing the dark walls of a cage.
Because Silas is here. And whether what is between is broken or not, for once, I’m not alone.