The door opened.
Two men stepped into the infirmary.
The first one moved like a weapon—tall, solid, scarred. His dark clothing clung to muscle and menace. Layla's throat tightened the moment their eyes met. If Crescent Moon's Alpha had a face, surely this was it.
But then… he stepped to the side.
And stood behind the other man.
The second one didn't look as dangerous. No scars. No exaggerated bulk. Just calm, calculated silence. He walked without hurry, his posture deliberate. Yet something about him made Layla's skin crawl—not with fear, but something... heavier. Authority. Power.
He didn't speak.
He didn't have to.
The first man—the scarred one—spoke instead, voice clear and clipped.
"You are within Crescent Moon Pack borders. I'm Beta Cael. This is our Alpha."
Layla's lips parted. This? Her eyes flicked to the quiet man again.
He nodded once in acknowledgment, eyes never leaving hers.
Cael continued. "You were found unconscious near the border. Injuries suggest attack. Protocol requires we identify and assess any threat."
Layla shifted uncomfortably in the bed. Every word felt like a knife carving facts from flesh.
"What's your name?"
She hesitated.
The Alpha tilted his head slightly, just enough. Cael gave a faint nod, clearly receiving a silent nudge.
"Where are you from?"
Still no malice. But no softness either.
Just the unsettling quiet of wolves used to blood and rules.
Layla's voice cracked. "Layla… I'm from the Nightfang pack."
Cael's expression didn't change.
But the Alpha's eyes narrowed, just a fraction.
"Nightfang," Cael repeated.
A pause.
Then, more questions, as expected.
"Rank?"
"…Omega."
"Affiliation with rogue activity?"
Layla shook her head quickly. "N-no. Never."
The Alpha turned slightly toward Cael, and the Beta spoke again,
"Final question....for now. Were you followed?"
Layla's voice was barely above a whisper.
"I don't know."
Cael's eyes narrowed as he processed her answer. He glanced toward the Alpha—just a flick of the eyes—and seemed to receive something only he could hear.
The Alpha gave one nod.
"Prepare for evaluation," Cael said firmly.
Layla's brow creased. "What does that mean?"
"You'll be kept under observation," he replied. "Until we determine whether your presence poses any threat."
"I'm not— I didn't—" Her voice cracked. She didn't even know what she was defending.
"You're not under arrest," Cael clarified, voice almost, almost, calm. "But you're not free to roam either."
The Alpha turned toward the doorway. Cael followed him. But just before leaving, he paused and added:
"Someone will be in shortly. You'll be moved to secure quarters after."
Then they were gone.
Layla was left in sterile silence, heart pounding in her ears.
They didn't trust her. Of course they didn't.
But what struck her more, what lingered in her bones, wasn't fear of being attacked.
It was that the Alpha hadn't said a single word… yet she could feel his voice.
Two guards came for her an hour later.
Not rough. Not gentle either. Just efficient.
She was helped into a wheelchair, her legs too weak to walk, and wheeled silently down a wide hallway that smelled like antiseptic and mountain air. Everything was too clean, too white. Cold tiles. Bright lights. A far cry from Nightfang's crumbling infirmary.
They stopped before a door with a silver crest etched into the glass: a crescent moon wrapped in vines.
One of them pressed his palm to the panel. The door clicked open.
But this wasn't a hospital room. Not really.
It was… a real room.
A queen-sized bed with navy sheets and thick, plush pillows. A rug lay underfoot, soft and clean. The walls were paneled with warm wood, and a small window let in soft afternoon light.
By the window stood a table and on it, a tray with actual food. Real food. Not gruel or scraps.
A steaming bowl of seasoned rice and grilled meat. A glass of water. Fresh fruit cut into neat little cubes. A roll of warm bread.
She just stared.
No one had spoken to her yet, not a single explanation, but the room spoke volumes.
"This is yours," the female guard said, noticing her hesitation. "There's a bathroom through that door. You'll find clothes in the drawer. Rest. The Alpha will summon you later."
Then they left her. Just like that.
Layla limped toward the bed, then collapsed into it. Not from exhaustion, though she exhausted but from disbelief.
It felt wrong to be treated like this. It felt like a trap.
But the softness of the bed was real.
The warmth of the food was real.
And for the first time in forever, Layla closed her eyes… not from pain, but from a strange, confusing sense of safety.
A week.
She has been staying in the room for a week now.
Food came like clockwork — warm, nutritious, and untouched by cruelty. The guards never spoke unless necessary, and the nurses who checked on her were kind but distant. No one pried. No one asked questions. But every time a knock came at the door, her stomach tightened, thinking this is it — he's here.
But it never was.
He never came.
"You're all healed up," a gentle voice broke through the haze of her thoughts.
Layla blinked, startled. She hadn't even noticed the nurse finish changing her bandages.
She looked down at her side, where the last of the claw marks had closed. The stitches had just been removed.
The nurse smiled faintly, folding the used gauze. "You'll be sore for a while, but there's no infection. You were lucky."
Layla swallowed the lump in her throat and managed a small, "Thank you."
The nurse gave a short nod, packed up her kit, and silently left the room.
Layla sat still.
Waiting.
Minutes turned into hours then...
A knock sounded, firm and final.
The door creaked open slightly, and one of the guards stepped halfway in, eyes neutral but tone clipped.
"The Alpha is ready for you."
Layla's heart skipped. Her hands clenched the blanket on her lap. This was the moment she'd been dreading and somehow, it had come silently, without thunder or warning.
She nodded slowly and stood up, legs slightly shaky but stronger than before.
The guard didn't offer help. He just turned and began walking.
She followed.