Her POV
The house had gone quiet again.
Three days since Leonardo stumbled back from the edge of death, and every sound felt too loud. The scrape of a chair leg, the clink of porcelain, even my own breathing.
He slept longer now, though sometimes I caught him sitting up at odd hours, eyes open but distant — as if the walls were still echoing with battle cries only he could hear.
I filled the silence by cleaning.Not that the house needed it; I just didn't know what else to do. The smell of disinfectant was easier to face than the scent of his blood — which I still caught sometimes in the air, no matter how many times I scrubbed the floors.
He was recovering faster than I expected. Too fast. The bruises had faded, the cuts on his arms were thin lines now, and yet something about him still looked broken. Like his skin had healed but his soul hadn't quite caught up.
And I… I didn't know what to call what I was feeling. Relief, maybe. Fear, definitely. But under it all, a strange pull that made me restless whenever he was near.
"Don't look at him," I muttered to myself while watering the tiny sprigs of herbs I'd planted behind the kitchen.
"You're not his nurse. You're not anything."
The lie didn't hold. My eyes found him anyway through the half-open window. He was sitting on the couch, bare-chested, a towel draped over his shoulders.
Sunlight spilled across his scars — long, pale ridges that crossed his ribs like maps of old pain. His hair was damp, his expression unreadable. And when his gaze lifted, our eyes met through the glass.
For a heartbeat, I forgot to breathe.
Then he smiled — faint, tired, but real.And I turned away so fast I almost knocked over the watering can.
His POV
It was almost funny. I had faced an entire rebellion, but what unsettled me most was the sight of her running from my eyes.
The battlefield had gone quiet, but it never left me. When I closed my eyes, I still saw the flash of claws, the torn banners, the men who wouldn't rise again. My body mended; my wolf didn't.
The beast inside wanted to tear, to claim, to make the world obey again — and every time I fought it, her scent was what steadied me.
That soft, maddening fragrance that drifted through every room she stepped in.It wasn't just floral; it was memory and warmth and defiance.And it calmed me… until it didn't.
The first night I returned, her presence had lulled the nightmares. But now, the wolf stirred restlessly, drawn to her like iron to flame.
My instincts whispered that she was mine — and I despised that thought. I had marked no one. Not since the Luna.
And yet, sometimes when she passed too close, my palm burned, the way it did when my mark used to flare in response to my mate's touch.
Impossible. I told myself that every morning.And every night, I stopped believing it.
Her POV
The market was busy that day, full of late autumn scents — roasted chestnuts, bread, cheap perfume. I liked the noise. It drowned out my thoughts.
I had almost finished my errands when someone called my name.
"Evne?"
The voice made my stomach drop.I turned slowly — and there he was.My ex-husband.
He looked the same. Perfect suit, same smug smile that once made me trust him. I hadn't seen him since the divorce — not since he'd drained my accounts and left me with nothing but the shell of a life.
"I knew it," he said softly, stepping closer. "That scent. I'd know it anywhere."
I froze. Of course. My scent. Omegas could try to mask it, but to an Alpha who once shared your bed, it was as distinct as a fingerprint. I'd changed my name, my look, even my life — but I hadn't thought of this.
"What are you doing here?" I managed, voice tight.
He tilted his head, eyes glinting with curiosity. "Funny, I was about to ask you the same. Word is, the great Alpha King's been hiding out in this district. And now I find you here. Should I take that as coincidence?"
My pulse raced. I wanted to run, but that would only draw attention. "Leave, Thomas."
He smiled thinly. "You smell different," he murmured. "Stronger. Someone's claimed you."
"No one—" I began, but he leaned closer, inhaling, and his expression changed — from amusement to disbelief, then dark amusement again.
"Oh. Him." His grin widened. "Of all people."
I didn't wait for another word. I turned and ran, pushing through the crowd until the noise blurred into a single heartbeat — mine.
His POV
I knew something was wrong the moment her scent hit the door — sharp with adrenaline and fear.
She burst in, eyes wide, breath ragged, and for a second she didn't even notice me. Her hands trembled as she set the basket down too hard, fruit rolling across the floor.
"Who did this?" I asked, voice lower than I meant. She flinched.
"No one. I just—"But lies never held up under my gaze. Her pupils dilated; her scent spiked again. Fear. Shame. And beneath it… anger.
I was on my feet before I thought about it."Tell me."
She shook her head, clutching her arms. "It's nothing. Just someone I used to know."
Used to.The wolf didn't like the sound of that. It rose, teeth bared inside me, wanting to find and destroy whatever had made her smell like that.
I stepped closer, slow enough that she could stop me if she wanted to. She didn't move. Her pulse jumped in her throat as I lifted a hand, brushed her shoulder — and that's when it happened.
A jolt. A spark under my skin, racing down my arm, into her.She gasped softly, swaying forward, and I caught her by the waist before she could fall.
Her scent flared — not just fear now, but confusion, heat, the scent of an Omega's instincts stirring under a claim that shouldn't exist.
My palm found the back of her neck.And under my fingers, something pulsed — faint, hot, alive.
Her breath hitched. "Leonardo—what are you—"
I wasn't.At least, I didn't think I was. My body moved on its own, the mark searing between us, invisible but real.For a second, the world shrank to the space between her skin and mine. The beast in me growled softly — not in threat, but in recognition.
Then I pulled away, panting, the spell breaking like glass.
Her hand flew to her nape, eyes wide. "What… what did you do?"
"I don't know," I said truthfully. My heart was hammering, every nerve alight. "But it's been there. Since the night I came back."
She backed away slowly, fingers trembling where they touched her neck. "You—marked me?"
I wanted to deny it.But my scent clung to her now, faint but undeniable.
"I didn't mean to," I said, voice raw. "It's… instinct."
Her expression flickered between fury and disbelief. "You don't just accidentally mark someone, Leonardo!"
"No," I agreed, taking a step closer despite myself. "But maybe I already did. The night you thought I was dead."
Silence stretched between us — taut, trembling.
Then she whispered, "This isn't supposed to happen."
"Neither is surviving a war," I said quietly. "But here we are."
Her POV
When he said it like that — low, certain, almost sorrowful — I couldn't tell if I wanted to hit him or cry. Maybe both.
I turned away, clutching the edge of the counter just to keep steady. The air felt too hot, my heart too loud. I could still feel the ghost of his touch on my neck — like an ember buried under my skin.
He moved behind me, slow, deliberate. Not touching. Just standing close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from him.
"I won't hurt you," he murmured. "But if someone came after you again… I can't promise I'll stay gentle."
"Thomas won't," I said automatically — then cursed myself for saying his name aloud.
Leonardo stilled. The temperature in the room seemed to drop.
"Thomas?" His tone was a growl wrapped in silk.
I closed my eyes. "My ex-husband. He recognized me. My scent."
For a heartbeat, there was only silence. Then I heard his breathing deepen — slow, controlled, too controlled.
"Then he won't again," Leonardo said finally, voice soft as a knife. "He won't even dare to remember it."
And in that moment, I didn't know which frightened me more — my ex-husband's threat, or the quiet promise in Leonardo's voice.
That night, long after he'd retreated to his room, I sat on the edge of my bed, tracing the faint warmth at the back of my neck.
It didn't hurt anymore, but it throbbed gently — as if the mark itself was alive, waiting.
I told myself I hated it.I told myself I hated him.
But the truth was worse.Because when I closed my eyes, I could still feel his hand there — and part of me wished he hadn't stopped.