STARLIGHT PROMISE:”Bound to the Lycan

In the shadow of him

AMORA’S POV

She is out of danger now; she just needs nutritious food, rest, and her medication. In a week's time, she should be fully recovered," the doctor’s voice was calm, almost too calm for the tension that hung in the air. He spoke with the careful precision of someone who had delivered this kind of news many times before, yet the weight of his words seemed to linger in the room, refusing to dissipate. He directed his gaze toward him, the man who dominated the room with an aura so intense it was almost suffocating. "Alpha, there's no need to worry. I'll be back in three days to change her bandages. If anything happens before then, please don't hesitate to call."

The doctor’s reassurances were meant to soothe, but the air remained thick with a tension that seemed impossible to cut through. As he finished speaking, he bowed deeply, his movements laced with a respect that bordered on reverence. The gesture seemed almost out of place in this small, dimly lit room. Is he some sort of royalty? The thought flickered through my mind, unbidden. The way the doctor moved around him, with such caution and deference, made it seem like he was addressing more than just a leader.

But what caught my attention even more was his reaction—or rather, his lack of one. Instead of offering any acknowledgment, not even a word of thanks, he simply nodded, his face remaining an impassive mask. How rude, I couldn’t help but think, a small spark of indignation flaring within me. An "okay" or even a "thank you" wouldn’t have killed him.

"Thank you, Doctor," Wilder’s voice cut through the tension, a stark contrast to the Alpha’s icy demeanor. There was a warmth and sincerity in his tone that was completely absent in the other man. "I'll see you out."

As Wilder and the doctor began to leave the room, a cold wave of anxiety surged through me. Wait—he’s leaving me alone with him? My heart started pounding, each beat echoing loudly in my ears like a warning bell. The last time I had been alone with this man, he had saved me, yes, but the look in his eyes had nearly undone me. There was something about him—something fierce, relentless, and frightening—that made me feel as though I was balancing on the edge of a cliff, with nothing but darkness waiting below.

He had saved me twice now, pulling me back from the brink when all seemed lost. And yet, I couldn’t shake the feeling of dread that gnawed at the edges of my consciousness. There was a danger in him, something primal and wild that lurked just beneath the surface of his controlled exterior. I wasn’t sure whether to be thankful or terrified—or maybe both.

The room felt smaller with each passing second, the silence pressing down on me like a weight. Suddenly, he stood up from the chair where he had been sitting, his movements fluid and deliberate, like a predator rising from a crouch. My breath caught in my throat, my pulse quickening as I watched him, my body tensing with a mix of fear and anticipation. Is he coming closer? The thought sent a cold shiver down my spine. No, no, I don’t want to see him, not like this. Not when I’m so vulnerable.

I scanned the room, my eyes darting around in search of Wilder, my only source of comfort in this strange and frightening situation. But before I could even begin to gather my thoughts, his voice sliced through the silence—a deep, commanding tone that seemed to reverberate through the very walls.

"Amora?" he called, his voice carrying an authority that was impossible to ignore. "Can you talk? I need to ask you some questions."

I opened my mouth to respond, but all that came out was a pained rasp. My throat felt like it was lined with glass shards, each attempt to speak sending sharp, searing pains through me. I winced, frustration and helplessness welling up inside me as I struggled to force the words out.

Just then, as if in answer to my unspoken plea, the door creaked open, and Wilder walked in, carrying a glass of water. Relief washed over me at the sight of him, but I barely had time to process it before I noticed he wasn’t alone. A young girl followed him, her head bowed low as she approached him—poker face. She moved with a grace that seemed out of place in this situation, her entire posture radiating submission as she dipped into a deep bow before hurrying over to my side. Her hands were gentle, but I could feel the slight tremor in her fingers as she helped me sit up and lean against the pillows.

She handed me the glass, and I drank eagerly, the cool liquid soothing my parched throat and easing the tightness in my chest. "Thank you," I managed to whisper, my voice still raw but more stable than before. The girl nodded, her gaze never meeting mine, before stepping back and retreating to the corner of the room, as if trying to make herself invisible.

"You can leave now," Wilder said, his voice firm yet kind. The girl didn’t hesitate, bowing once more to him—poker face—before slipping quietly out of the room. Weird, I thought, watching her go. But there was no time to dwell on it—I needed to focus on the present, on the man standing before me.

Finally able to speak, I looked up at him, who was watching me with an intensity that made my skin prickle with unease. "Are you okay to talk now?" poker face asked, his tone more of a command than a question.

His words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken implications, and for a moment, I felt like I was drowning in the weight of them. Why does he care if I can talk? My mind raced, trying to piece together the fragments of this strange, terrifying puzzle. But one thing was clear—whatever he wanted to know, it was important. And it was only the beginning of a conversation that could change everything.

I swallowed hard, the taste of fear bitter on my tongue. "Yes," I finally managed to say, my voice barely above a whisper. "I can talk."

He moved closer, each step deliberate, calculated, as if he were approaching a skittish animal. There was something in his eyes now, something I couldn’t quite place—an emotion buried deep beneath layers of control. Was it concern? Curiosity? Or something darker, something that sent another shiver down my spine?

"His eyes locked onto mine, intense and unyielding, as if he could pull the truth from me by sheer will alone. "Who was it?" he asked, his voice a low growl that sent a shiver down my spine. "Who was chasing you that night?"

I blinked, confusion clouding my mind. Chasing me? What was he talking about? My heart began to race, but not from fear—this time, it was from the growing realization that I had no idea what he meant.

"Was… someone chasing me?" I stammered, my voice barely above a whisper. The question hung in the air between us, sounding as bewildered as I felt. I searched his face for some clue, some hint that might help me make sense of this. But all I found was the same unrelenting intensity, the same demand for answers I didn’t have.

My mind was a fog, swirling with fragments of images and emotions that refused to come together. The harder I tried to remember, the more elusive it all became. It was like reaching out for something just beyond my grasp, only to have it slip through my fingers every time.

He stared at me, his expression unreadable, but I could sense the frustration building behind those eyes. He was waiting for something—an explanation, an admission, anything that might make sense of what he thought I knew. But how could I explain what I didn’t even understand myself?

"I… I don’t know," I said finally, my voice trembling with uncertainty. "I don’t remember anything like that." I could feel the panic rising in my chest, the helplessness of not knowing what was going on, of not even knowing what I was supposed to be afraid of. "I don’t remember someone chasing me… I don’t remember anything from that night."

My words seemed to hang in the air, heavy and inadequate. His gaze didn’t soften, but I saw something shift in his eyes—something that might have been disappointment or perhaps a deeper worry.

I was so clueless, so lost in this strange, terrifying situation. I had no idea what was going on, and that made it all the more terrifying. How could I defend myself, how could I even begin to make sense of it, when my mind was a blank slate, wiped clean of the very memory he was asking about?

"I’m sorry," I whispered, feeling small and helpless under his scrutiny. "I don’t know what happened. I just… I don’t remember."