Claimed by the Ruthless Alpha Prince

Chapter3

Elara's POV

“Not my problem,” healer Mórrígan, reached into a cabinet behind her desk and pulled out a small glass vial filled with a murky brown liquid. She tosses it to me. “Here’s a basic healing tonic. It might help with the pain.”

I stare at the vial, recognizing it as the weakest remedy they produce—one usually given for minor scrapes and bruises, not deep claw wounds. My jaw tightens as I lower it to my side, my movements deliberate and controlled.

“This won’t be enough for injuries this severe,” I say, my voice neutral despite the anger burning in my chest. “I need—”

“You need to get out of my office,” the head healer interrupts with a deceptively kind expression. “Take your half payment and your tonic and leave. I have real patients to attend to.”

I stand there for a moment, gripping the pathetic healing tonic and staring at the small pile of coins on her desk. Everything in me wants to storm out empty-handed, to maintain some shred of dignity. But I need those coins, meager as they are.

“Fine,” I say, my voice quiet but firm. I take the coins with steady hands, meeting her gaze the entire time. “But if this injury is not healed by next week, I won’t be going into the woods for your herbs. You should look for another shifter willing to risk their lives.”

She half rises out of her chair, clearly angry, but I’m already shuffling out of her office.

My back is straight despite the pain shooting through my leg. The other healers avoid eye contact as I pass, probably having heard every word of my exchange with their boss. As I exit the healing center and step back into the evening air, I can’t help but think that sometimes the creatures in the Wyvern Woods show more mercy than the people in my own pack.

Clenching the tonic bottle, I make my way toward the edge of the settlement, where I’ve been allowed to live.

Exhaustion accompanies the burning sensation in my leg. The bear must have hit an artery because the bleeding hadn’t stopped. If I were fully human, I would be dead by now. Tears sting my eyes, but I don’t allow them to fall.

I can’t.

If any other shifter had an injury like this, they would be admitted to the infirmary and given the best care possible.

But I’m not any other shifter. In fact, I shouldn’t even call myself a shifter.

I was born with a latent wolf. Shifters like me are typically killed at birth, but my mother was the previous alpha’s daughter, so I was spared.

I don’t remember much of my childhood, but I recall my mother’s warm hands cupping my face and telling me to hold on, that everything good will come my way eventually. I don’t know when that warmth disappeared or when she died. One day, she simply wasn’t there anymore, and I was expected to look after myself.

Finally reaching the very end of the settlement, I opened the gate of the small, faded cottage next to the woods. A small cat is napping by the front door, and she stretches when she sees me.

Luna.

She showed up when I was young. She was a kitten herself. And she has been here all these years.

I unlocked the door with a groan. “Sorry, Luna. Let me deal with this first.”

After hobbling into the kitchen, I pour some water into a basin and carry it to the small living room, along with a clean rag.

I settle onto the worn couch, wincing as I prop up my injured leg on the coffee table. The basin of water sloshes slightly as I set it down. Luna jumps up beside me, her amber eyes studying my wound with the kind of concern I never get from my own pack.

“Don’t look at me like that,” I murmured to her, dipping the rag into the water. “I know it’s bad.”

The cold pressure against my torn flesh makes me hiss through my teeth. Blood has dried in crusty streaks down my calf, and fresh crimson still seeps from the deepest gouges. I work methodically, wiping away the dirt and blood, my hands surprisingly steady despite the pain.

Once the wound is clean, I uncork the pathetic healing tonic Healer Mórrígan gave me. The cloudy liquid looks more like muddy water than medicine. I pour it directly onto the gashes, hoping against hope that maybe it will work better than it looks.

Five minutes pass. Then ten. The bleeding continues, and the pain hasn’t lessened even slightly. If anything, the wound looks angrier than before, the edges red and inflamed.

“Useless,” I mutter, tossing the empty vial aside. Luna meows in what sounds like agreement.

I lean back against the couch cushions, fatigue weighing heavily on my shoulders. But I can’t just sit here and bleed. Not when I have another option.

Standing carefully, I shuffle toward my back door, the cat following at my heels. Behind the cottage, hidden from the settlement’s view, lies my secret garden. Rows of carefully tended herbs grow in neat lines, each one planted and nurtured by my own hands. Moonbell, silverleaf, crimson sage, and dozens of others that most pack members can’t even name.

I’ve kept them carefully concealed behind large shrubs even though no one ever comes here. This is my own personal collection in the event I ever need it. These herbs are not easy to grow out here; in fact, they are supposed to be impossible to grow out here. But my mother had a green thumb, and so did I. And the one thing she always told me was not to let anyone know what I’m capable of.

I kneel down, swallowing a pained cry as I do. Beside me is a patch of emerald-leafed plants, their surfaces slightly fuzzy to the touch. Healing moss—one of the most potent natural remedies for wounds, but also one of the most dangerous if prepared incorrectly. My fingers work quickly, selecting only the youngest leaves, the ones with the brightest green color.

Even I can’t grow very many of these, so the ones I do manage are for just in case I get hurt.