Omega Saved Alpha, He Named Me His Luna

Chapter 3

The next seven nights became the strangest days of my life.

During the day, I worked in the infirmary and let Seraphina order me around as usual.

At night, I slipped into the old herb cellar with my basket to change Aric’s dressings, feed him medicine, and watch over his fevers.

He recovered terrifyingly fast.

Only powerful werewolves had that kind of healing ability.

But because the silver blade had been coated in wolfsbane, the wound healed slowly enough to force him to stay several more days.

He was a difficult patient.

"This tastes like mud water."

On the third night, he frowned at the bowl I handed him.

"That’s because the poison in you is about as filthy as mud water."

I shoved the bowl into his hands.

"Drink it. Otherwise, I can’t promise you’ll keep that life of yours."

He raised an eyebrow.

For the first time, something other than suspicion flickered in those amber eyes.

"I thought Omegas were supposed to keep their heads down and avoid eye contact."

He drank the bitter medicine in one swallow.

"That’s because they’re afraid."

I took back the empty bowl.

"I’m not like them."

He looked at me.

Then he laughed softly.

That laugh loosened the hard lines of his face, and for a moment, warmth slipped through all that danger.

My heart skipped without warning.

I blamed it on lack of sleep.

And exhaustion.

How could I possibly feel something for a man whose origins I didn’t even know?

Besides, someone like him clearly did not belong in a place as small as Hollowmoor.

But Sorrel did not agree.

The moment she drew near his scent, she quieted, as though she had found something she had lost.

Over those nights, we talked in broken pieces.

He asked how an Omega had learned such skills.

I told him my teacher had been the old Pack Doctor, and before he died, he gave me everything he knew about herbs.

Because, he said, hands like mine were not meant to be buried.

"Then why," Aric asked, watching me closely, "are you still trapped here?"

I was silent for a moment.

"Because no one cares if an Omega gets buried."

Then I looked down at my hands.

"But I care. Once I save enough money, I’m leaving for the East. I’ll start over with these hands."

He didn’t speak.

Only those amber eyes watched me quietly beneath the oil lamp.

For a long time.

I didn’t ask too much.

And he didn’t tell me too much.

I only pieced together fragments.

He had been ambushed near the border of his own territory.

The attackers had used silver blades coated in wolfsbane.

They had come to kill him.

"Who did it?" I asked.

"A man who wants my position."

He stared at the low ceiling of the cellar, his eyes cold as ice.

"A rogue named Dorran. He won’t live long."

The way he said it made me understand for the first time that this man was anything but ordinary.

On the seventh night, the wound finally scabbed over completely.

He could stand.

He could shift fully again.

I knew he was leaving.

That night, the moonlight was bright.

He sat at the entrance of the cellar, looking out at the wolfsbane field glowing silver beneath the moon.

For a long time, he said nothing.

"This place is dangerous for werewolves," he said suddenly.

"Not for me."

I sat beside him.

"Dangerous things can save lives if you know how to use them."

He turned his head and looked at me.

Under the moonlight, his gaze was softer than it had any right to be.

"Yes."

His voice was low.

"I know that now."

That night, the way he looked at me was complicated.

As though there were many things he wanted to say.

But in the end, all he said was:

"Wren, thank you. I owe you my life."

He paused, his voice deepening.

"When I finish what needs to be done, I’ll come back for you."

I didn’t believe him.

People who had nearly died always said grateful things.

Besides, sooner or later, he would return to the world he came from.

And that world was separated from mine by an entire field of wolfsbane.

But the next morning, when I arrived at the cellar with my basket, it was empty.

All that remained on the straw bed was his scent—

pinewood mixed with snow.

And a small wolf pendant carved from bone, lying quietly on the stone where I always sat.

I picked it up and closed my fingers around it.

It still held a trace of his warmth.

Inside my mind, Sorrel let out a soft, grieving whine.