I dreamed about Alexander.
Perhaps, my subconsciousness wanted to see him because of the guilt of leaving him alone in that huge mansion all by himself again, or maybe it was yet another effect of the bond. Nonetheless, he was there in my dream, albeit not in the state I wanted to see him in—he was writhing on his bed, his scarred torso wrapped in bandages soaked with an alarming amount of blood.
Werewolves, especially an alpha like him, were supposed to heal quickly. So I didn’t understand how he could bleed out so much like that.
I felt like crying so I did. With shaky steps, I walked to the side of his bed, and the sight of his face contorted in pain broke my heart. His wounds were severe, and my chest tightened painfully the instant I studied his injury as if the awareness of it mad
