Chosen by the Alpha Who Destroyed My Pack

Chapter 24 – Shared Pain

Morning crept in on a gray drizzle and the smell of wet leaves.

Sylvi woke to the soft hiss of rain against the window and the low murmur of voices outside her door. Her neck ached from sleeping in one position too long; her arm pulsed with a familiar, deep throb where she’d dragged magic through it.

For one disorienting moment she thought last night’s dream still had her—trees, Vesk, cold words like knives.

Then the chair creaked.

Corren sat where she’d left him, boots on the floor now, elbows on his knees. His eyes were closed, jaw rough with stubble, shoulders slumped in a way she’d never seen while the sun was up.

He looked…mortal. Not alpha. Not weapon. Just a man who’d spent the night fending off her ghosts by proximity.

Guilt and something softer twisted under her ribs.

“You drool when you nap sitting up,” she croaked.

One eye cracked open. “And good morning to you too.”

“You didn’t have to stay,” she said, pushing herself up against the headboard. Every muscle complained.

“Apparently I did,” he said. “According to Ilyss.”

As if conjured by her name, a brisk knock sounded. Ilyss stuck her head in without waiting for an answer, a tray balanced on one hip.

“Ah,” she said. “She lives. And you”—a pointed look at Corren—“still have all your limbs. Good. Breakfast.”

She set the tray on the table: porridge, tea, something that smelled suspiciously like Serah’s honey bread.

“You two are on my schedule this morning,” Ilyss said. “Joint appointment.”

Sylvi squinted at her. “Are we getting couples counseling now? Do I need to make a copay?”

“Keep being cute, Arkett, and I’ll make you pay in herbs that taste like feet,” Ilyss said. “I mean your bond.”

The room cooled a degree.

Corren straightened. “What about it?”

“It got mauled yesterday,” Ilyss said bluntly. “Then you two decided to go gallivanting off into big emotions and nightmare dates with Harrow without letting anyone check the stitches.”

Sylvi’s stomach flipped. “You felt that.”

“Everyone with half a sense did,” Ilyss said. “Which is why we’re going to poke at it on purpose this time, instead of letting Vesk’s claws do the exploring.”

Corren and Sylvi exchanged a look. Uncomfortable. Necessary.

“Now?” Sylvi asked. “I just woke up.”

“Best time,” Ilyss said. “Before you’ve had a chance to throw yourself into someone else’s crisis. Eat first. Then we play ‘where does it hurt.’”

She left before they could argue.

Sylvi eyed the tray. “I’m starting to feel emotionally manipulated by carbohydrates.”

“Serah’s most effective therapy,” Corren said. “Eat.”

They ate in companionable silence, broken only by the occasional hiss when Sylvi moved her wrist wrong. The bond hummed, faint, like a radio picking up a distant station.

When they finished, Ilyss returned, dragging a chair to the foot of the bed like a general taking her post.

“All right,” she said. “Here’s the plan. We gently prod your connection while I watch. You tell me what you feel. If anything starts to scream, we stop.”

“Define ‘scream,’” Sylvi muttered.

“Pain that makes you want to bite something other than each other,” Ilyss said. “Emotion spikes that don’t feel like yours. Vesk’s cologne. Use your judgement.”

Corren’s mouth twitched.

“How do we prod it?” he asked.

“Would you like a pamphlet?” Ilyss said. “Hold hands. Focus. Same as what you two have been doing on your own, but this time, imagine there’s a responsible adult in the room.”

Sylvi snorted despite herself.

Corren shifted closer on the mattress, turning to face her fully. The space between them shrank to a foot, then less.

“You ready?” he asked.

“No,” she said. “Do it anyway.”

He held out his hand, palm up. She stared at it for a heartbeat, then laid her own in it.

Heat flared at the contact, immediate as ever. But it was a low flame this time, banked.

“Close your eyes,” Ilyss said. “Both of you. Focus on your own body first. Breath. Heart. Then…reach for the place where you end and the other begins.”

Sylvi inhaled. The scent of rain and wolf and old wood filled her lungs.

Inside, her wolf shifted, wary and curious. The faint line that was their bond gleamed in the dark of her inner landscape, a slender thread stretched between two hearts.

She followed it with her awareness, lightly. At the other end, something solid waited—Corren’s presence: steady, hot, too big for the container and still somehow held.

You there? she thought, not quite meaning to.

His answer wasn’t words. It was a feeling like a door opening, just a crack, letting warmth spill through.

“Yes,” he said aloud at the same time.

The thread brightened.

“Anything?” Ilyss asked, her voice distant.

“Steady,” Corren said. “No pull. Just…there.”

“Same,” Sylvi murmured. “Feels like…standing close to a fire without touching it.”

“Good,” Ilyss said. “Now, very slowly, both of you push a little more of yourselves into it. Not your fears. Not your nightmares. Something simple. Mundane.”

“Like what?” Sylvi asked.

“Breakfast,” Ilyss said. “The way the bread tasted. The warmth of the tea. Something your brain doesn’t associate with trauma.”

Sylvi thought of the honey melting on her tongue, of the way Serah had smacked Jorek’s hand away when he tried to steal an extra piece. Of the ridiculous comfort of food she hadn’t cooked.

She let that warmth slide along the thread.

On the other end, she felt Corren catch it—a brief, startled flicker. His fingers tightened on hers.

“That…was you?” he asked.

“Don’t look so surprised,” she muttered. “I’m capable of positive feelings.”

“I didn’t say I doubted it,” he said. “Just…nice to feel them without pain attached.”

“You send something,” she said, because fairness.

He hesitated. Then she felt it: the solid satisfaction of watching his wolves eat around a long table, the quiet pride when Jorek made a joke and the whole room laughed, the bone-deep, aching relief of seeing her walk back into the yard in one piece.

It hit her like a wave. Her throat closed.

“Too much?” he asked quickly, sensing the spike.

“No,” she managed. “Just…a lot.”

The bond vibrated, not with outside pressure, but with something building between them. Under Ilyss’s watchful presence, it felt less like a trap and more like a muscle they were learning to use.

“Now,” Ilyss said carefully, “tug. Just a little. As if you were calling each other from across the clearing. I want to see if there are any ‘snags’ where his marks left hooks.”

Sylvi swallowed. “On three?”

Corren nodded. “One. Two. Three.”

They both pulled.

It wasn’t physical, not exactly. More like leaning harder on the line, asking it to bear more weight.

For a heartbeat, it held.

Then—pain.

Not the white-hot agony of the ritual. A spike, sharp and sudden, along one section of the thread. Sylvi gasped; Corren sucked in a breath at the same time.

“There,” he ground out. “Left side.”

“Middle,” Sylvi said, teeth clenched.

Ilyss’s eyes snapped open. She reached out, not touching them, but hovering her hands just above their joined ones, lips moving in a low murmur.

The pain eased, but didn’t vanish. When Sylvi looked inward, she could see it now: a section of their bond that looked different—thicker, darker, like rope wrapped in barbed wire.

“That’s him,” she whispered. “Vesk. Or…what he left.”

“I can’t…get my fingers under it,” Corren said, eyes still closed, sweat beading at his temple. “Every time I try to push through that spot, it bites.”

“Pull back,” Ilyss said sharply. “Both of you. Let go.”

They eased off, breathing hard, hands still clamped.

The thread dimmed back to its faint glow. The barbed section remained, but quiet, like a sleeping snake.

“Well,” Ilyss said. “Good news: you have one major scar, not a thousand hairline fractures. Bad news: it’s right in the center. If you try to deepen this bond without dealing with it, it’s going to rip you both open.”

“Can we cut it out?” Corren asked hoarsely.

Sylvi’s stomach lurched. The memory of Vesk’s offer crawled up the back of her throat.

“Not like he offered,” Ilyss said firmly, as if she’d read her mind. “I’m not talking about severing. I’m talking about…neutralizing. Building new pathways around the wound, so the weight doesn’t sit on it.”

“Can you?” Sylvi asked.

Ilyss sucked her teeth. “Not alone. Not fast. And not without risk. But better we learn to work around it now than slam into it in the middle of another fight and hope we don’t explode.”

Corren opened his eyes. They were darker than usual.

“Translation,” he said. “Our bond can help us. Or break us. Again.”

“Yes,” Ilyss said. “So either you two commit to learning its limits, together, or you back away and let it scar shallow. Half a link. Half the power. Fewer knives. Still a lot of ache.”

Sylvi’s fingers tightened on his without thinking.

Back away. Let it scar.

Vesk’s voice echoed: I can cut it. Clean.

She swallowed hard.

“I’m not backing away,” she heard herself say. “Not while he’s still using our work as a highway.”

Corren’s grip answered, firm. “Neither am I.”

Ilyss’s shoulders dropped, as if she’d been holding a breath.

“Then,” the healer said, “we do it the slow way. My way. With tea and rules instead of explosions.”

She rose, joints popping.

“Congratulations,” she added dryly. “You’re now officially a case study. Try not to make me rewrite the textbooks alone.”

When she left, the room felt quieter. Closer.

Sylvi realized she still hadn’t let go of Corren’s hand.

“Choices, choices,” she muttered, staring at their joined fingers.

“We could have picked easier ones,” he said.

“You could have married the girl on the file,” she shot back.

“You could have taken Vesk’s deal,” he said.

They held each other’s gaze.

“And yet,” Sylvi said softly, “we’re here.”

His thumb brushed once over the back of her hand. A small, deliberate motion.

“Yeah,” he said. “We are.”