(Leonardo Ivankov's POV)
The morning light had barely breached the skyline when I woke.
Old habits die hard; Alphas like me rarely sleep deeply. The world doesn't allow it. A Kingdom doesn't run on trust — it runs on vigilance. And lately, I had far too many reasons to stay alert.
The city stretched below, quiet and unassuming. I took my coffee black, as always, and moved toward the table by the window. The faint scent of vanilla and something softer — honey, maybe — lingered in the air. Hers.
That scent had become familiar far too quickly.
She moved through my home like a ghost pretending to be harmless. Too careful. Too polite. Too grateful. I knew people who'd spent their lives learning how to act invisible, and she wore that disguise perfectly.
But no one hides that well without reason.
Still, I told myself she was just a stray — another broken Omega trying to disappear into a world that didn't care if she existed. I'd seen too many like her. Helped a few. Ignored more than I'd like to admit.
And yet… this one unnerved me.
Maybe it was the way her eyes darted toward the exits without realizing it, or the way she stilled whenever I came too close. Or maybe it was the way she smelled when she slept — calm, steady, and familiar.
I shouldn't have noticed that. I shouldn't have cared.
But I did.
When I sat down at the dining table, something caught my eye.
A small, leather-bound notebook lay half-tucked beneath a pile of folded laundry she'd left earlier. The cover was worn, the corners bent from use. I almost ignored it. Almost.
But a thin ribbon of ink peeked from between the pages.
And my instincts — the same ones that built an empire and crushed a rebellion — whispered: Look.
I picked it up carefully. The pages smelled faintly of her — lavender and adrenaline. Inside, the handwriting slanted delicately, half-cursive, half-chaos.
The first line wasn't anything unusual:
Day 23 — City's too loud. I miss the quiet.
I flipped to the next page.
Saw him again today. Same place, same time. He still orders coffee without sugar. I don't know why I keep noticing.
My fingers tightened around the notebook.
Saw him again?
I turned another page.
He doesn't remember me. He never will. But maybe that's for the best. Some things are safer forgotten.
Something cold coiled in my gut.
She'd been watching me. Before she ever stepped foot into this apartment, she knew me.
My name wasn't there — not yet — but the context was unmistakable. She described details only someone who'd been close enough to observe could know. My habits, my route, the way I stirred my coffee twice before drinking.
I closed the notebook.
For a long moment, I just stared at the leather cover, the weight of it pulsing in my hand like a heartbeat.
Then I slid it back exactly where I found it.
I didn't confront her.
Not yet.
Instead, I watched.
Over the next two days, I noticed everything I'd been too careless to see before. The hesitation in her smile when I mentioned the city. The way she froze when the evening news played footage of the Alpha District. The subtle flinch whenever someone said Ivankov.
She knew who I was.
But she didn't act like someone seeking favor or safety. She didn't ask for anything. No money, no position, no access.
Which only made her more suspicious.
If she was a spy, she was a terrible one — too human, too soft, too genuine. But if she wasn't… then what the hell was she running from?
And why did my wolf — the part of me that usually tore through deceit with ease — stay quiet when she lied?
It wasn't silence born of ignorance. It was something else. Recognition.
Every night, her scent drifted from the guest room, seeping beneath the door, curling through the air like smoke. I told myself I was imagining it, but the pull was unmistakable.
Not attraction — not exactly. Something older. Primal. Like memory.
That evening, I found her in the kitchen again, humming softly while chopping herbs.
She smiled when she saw me, that same too-careful smile that never quite reached her eyes. "Dinner's almost ready."
"You've been cooking for three nights straight."
"It's the least I can do," she said.
"I didn't ask you to."
Her knife paused mid-slice. "Would you rather I didn't?"
I didn't answer right away. My gaze fell to her hands — steady, precise. Not the hands of a stranger. Not the hands of someone new to survival.
"You remind me of someone," I said finally.
She blinked, startled. "I do?"
I nodded once. "But I can't remember who."
Her lips parted — a subtle intake of breath she tried to hide. "Maybe I just have a common face."
"No," I said, voice low. "There's nothing common about you."
Her pulse stuttered. I could hear it, faint and quick.
For a second, neither of us moved. The air between us thickened — heavy with things neither of us dared name.
Then she looked away, murmuring, "You should sit. Dinner's burning."
I stayed where I was. Watching.
The truth sat on the edge of both our tongues, but neither of us was ready to taste it.
That night, I couldn't sleep.
The notebook burned in my thoughts. The lines replayed like echoes in a tunnel.
He doesn't remember me. He never will.
I did remember something, though — fragments. A scent in a crowd. A flash of eyes during a riot. The fleeting image of a girl who looked up as I passed years ago, rain soaking her hair, fear and admiration tangled in her expression.
It couldn't be her.
Could it?
My wolf stirred restlessly under my skin.
Find out.
Not yet.
If I confronted her now, she'd vanish like smoke. And for reasons I didn't want to examine too closely, the thought of her leaving twisted something deep in my chest.
So I waited. Watched.
And told myself this was strategy, not obsession.
But deep down, I already knew—the next time she slipped up, I wouldn't let her run again.
Not until I knew the whole story.
And maybe, not even then.