The New Alpha's Return

Scarred

"You should take care of yours, Duke Atlas; it looks more serious."

That was what she could have said, bowing low and racing off until she was hidden from murmurs and shocked gazes in her direction.

But he didn't give her the chance; his fingers curled around her wrist, pulling her along to a shaded bench at the edge of the arena, and then sitting her down, he squatted down before her.

He had demanded a satchel from his disappointed general, and now he stared laser-focused at her cut, brushing it with a small part of a napkin soaked in antiseptic.

It stung like hell, a sharp bite that made her eyes water, but his touch was so careful, she barely flinched.

Those hands, rough and built for war, moved with a gentleness that clashed hard with the beast she’d seen hurl Nathan through glass.

She stared at the top of his wild dark hair, sweat glistening on his back, crisscrossed with knife and claw scars that made her chest ache. Some were white and faded, others red and raw, from battles she couldn’t even fathom.

He was too young for this, wasn’t he? Twenty-five at most, and already carved up like a warrior twice his age? Her heart softened for him.

Softened so much that, ignoring the murmurs hitting her from where she sat, Iris teased, "You shouldn't be here. Your spectators look quite disappointed you chose to play nursemaid over their approval."

His hand stilled for a heartbeat, and a faint flush crept up his neck; he raised his face, and Iris caught a crooked smile playing on his lips before he dropped his face down.

"I'm right where I need to be. Luigi can keep them busy." He dropped the bloody towel aside and began to wrap her wound with a strip of white cloth very carefully. "He likes the spotlight."

She glanced over, and sure enough, there was Luigi, the general, making a mess of a soldier twice his size, unimpressed and thriving in the chaos. They really did know each other, like brothers or something.

But that blush? He was a fine young man, trying so hard to be respectful, but flustered under her tease. What guy wouldn’t be, with every girl of age in the pack whispering his name?

She smirked, leaning forward just a bit. “Oh, come on, your grace—don’t tell me you haven’t noticed them swooning. Young, handsome Duke, tearing up the arena? You’re practically a legend already.”

He chuckled, shaking his head—a soft sound that sent a shiver racing down her spine. “I’m not here for them. I have a specific taste.” He began to tie the bandage into a knot, his fingers brushing her skin as he murmured, “She owns me.”

Iris's smirk froze. He looked up, holding her gaze, studying as though he had intentionally let that slip. Of course, Iris thought, no one this pretty walks around without a claim. But the way he said it...

Did he maybe mistake her questions for interest and was respectfully telling her to back off? Her brows knit. Apparently.

"Your words are too poetic for someone so young with that reputation." Iris looked up, dodging that intense stare that made her feel naked.

His eyes dulled. Iris wasn't sure, but he looked hurt and a lot more boyish even with those scars. "How old do you think I am?"

She didn't pause to think, "Twenty-six?"

His face paled, and he looked back at the knot he was taking forever to finish. “Close. Twenty-three."

She could have sworn the world stopped right there; her eyes widened. The silence stretched between them as she pondered on how to express her shock. He looked it, alright! She didn't just expect him to be it!

"Old enough?" He murmured, shoulders hunched. "I should be."

Iris blinked, then let out a small, nervous laugh, trying to ease the tension between them, "Of course." She looked pointedly at those scars. "Your mystery lady must be thrilled to have a scarred-up romantic like you pining after her. Hopefully she knows how to duel for ownership."

He laughed again. And yes, he looked his age; he shook his head again, "She wouldn't need to do that."

With that devotion, he would never be unclaimed for long.

As much as she'd have liked to listen to the sweet tales of young love, she also knew when to back off. He snipped the extra wrap with a knife. He was finished, but his fingers lingered as though lost in thought, as though checking if it was the right amount of firm. Iris wasn't sure.

She took her hands from him, rubbing her wrist to stop it from tingling as she dodged his eyes. "Where did you learn to tie a knot this good, your Grace?"

He didn't answer right away, probably weighing if he should trust her with that information, then he muttered, "The orphanage.

Of course, she felt her glow dimmer; something had to have made him this, and it started early. Way too early.

She didn’t move, afraid any reaction would make him shut down. Especially now that he was back to searching her face. So she sighed, "Amara told me I taught in an orphanage once. I'm not sure."

He blinked at her, the shift in his expression subtle. Full-blown surprise. Like he’d found something in her words he hadn’t expected. His voice was quiet when he spoke. “You don’t remember?”

"I can't believe you haven't heard. It's quite the gossip." She laughed, but it's hollow. "I, the duke's wife, lost my family and my memory eight years ago."

He froze.

***

"The last time I saw that look on you, you were fifteen." Asher's amused voice trailed into the hall. "With that flower, I've got a hint it's the same problem."

Atlas, who was slumped back on a chair, gazed up at the redhead, casually leaning against the archway. Sighing hard, he dropped his eyes back on the fresh red marigold. He'd ignore his older brother, pretend he wasn't there. It never worked, but it didn't mean he couldn't try.

As Asher progressed in, with his buttoned-down shirt and those glasses, Atlas knew he had just walked out of the study. Minutes ago, Atlas had blocked out his mind link, and he was there to ask why. Except he already knew.

He smirked at Atlas, who was still slumped in his chair, twirling that red marigold between his fingers like it held all his secrets.

"Let me guess," Asher dropped heavily onto a sofa. " You finally spoke to her. Did she reject you again?"

Atlas passed him a look, a very blank one, but Asher just had to read something into it. He chuckled, folding his arms across his chest, "Ten, fifteen, twenty-three—you're still the same i***t. She's married, stupid. What did you expect?"

Atlas said nothing, only stared harder at the marigold as if he could will it to speak the words he couldn’t. His thumb brushed the edge of a petal, carefully so the petal didn't bruise.

“She doesn’t remember anything, Ash,” he murmured. Not the orphanage, not even herself. There was an accident, and she lost her memory”.

Asher's smirk faded in a flash; he sat up, adjusting his glasses. "She said that."

"With a laugh. Said Amara told her about it, but she didn't know if it was true. Didn't forget, just can't remember. She's like a ghost of her former self. But she's still her, the way she smiles, the way she teases."

Asher watched his brother stand up, the flower hanging limply from his finger as he moved to the window.

He knew this Atlas. Knew what trouble this Atlas brought with him. But one thing was certain: there was nothing his psycho kid brother couldn't handle. But Iris... Iris was just something else entirely.

He stifled a laugh, remembering fifteen-year-old Atlas bristling because their teacher had caressed his cheek after he had confessed, laughed, and told him he was too young to have figured out what he wanted.

Right there he swore to them, he would become something she couldn't ignore. Someone so strong he could lay the world at her feet. The i***t had always been something of a poet.

He had lived up to his promise. The Devil Duke. He was stronger than he and Luigi combined. But power was secondary to Atlas. Iris had always been first.

But she was mated. It was over. Thirteen years was enough time for a kid to get over a crush.

"Nathan doesn't deserve her." Atlas broke the silence, "Next to her, the whole damn pack is filth."

Asher looked at him; there was that tight grin he hated, because that was a warning. The i***t was about to do something stupid.

"Just so you know, you can't throw her husband out the window again and expect me to cover for you." Asher stood up, "Because I won't. Let it go, man."

Even as he said it, he knew that was never going to be possible. Three months was enough time for the bastard to cause havoc.

"I'm going to make her remember, Ash."

There it was. Asher closed his eyes. This was bad. Pack; midnight better be ready for what was coming.

"And how do you intend to do that?"

Atlas stared at the marigold, then raised the now crushed petals to his nose, inhaling, and there was that small smile again, "I need your help."

Asher exhaled tiredly. Some things never change.