Contracts Bride

Chapter 5

Ethan's Perspective

The afternoon I returned from the back mountain, I spread the gathered mint on the stone ledge outside my door to dry. The autumn sun was warm on the vibrant green leaves, quickly evaporating the moisture and releasing a faint, fresh scent. Yet, inside, I felt only a deep cold.

Kyle's words—"I don't need your false concern"—were like an ice needle lodged in my heart. Holding the dried mint, I crouched by my door for a long time, hesitating, but ultimately didn't dare take it to his chamber. In the end, I wrapped it in a clean piece of linen and tucked it into the bottom of my wooden chest—just like I quietly buried my own insignificant feelings.

In the days that followed, I learned to approach him differently. No more deliberate attempts to please, just silently tending to things related to him within the dens. Knowing his cold nature and dislike of disturbance, I performed all these tasks quietly, fearful of provoking his annoyance again.

Each morning, before he rose, I would slip to his door and take the beast-fur cloak he had worn the previous day. Made from the pelt of a mature Black Wolf, it was thick but heavy, often stained with blood and dirt from the hunt. I would wash it carefully in warm water, comb the tangled fur smooth, and dry it in the sun. By evening, I would return it, neatly folded on his stone chair.

The full moon was when Alphas were most prone to frenzy. Custom dictated that a mate stay by their side to soothe them, but Kyle always locked himself in his chamber alone on those nights. I didn't dare approach, only ground dried calming herbs into powder beforehand, wrapped them in breathable linen, and placed the packet gently by his door before the moon rose, then retreated silently. I didn't know if the herbs helped, but I hoped they might ease his suffering a little.

He often went hunting with his warriors, sometimes returning late into the night. On those occasions, I would light a tallow lamp outside my small room. I used oilgrass from the plains for the wick; it burned brightly and long. The light was faint, but it cast a small pool of brightness in the dark corridor, a hope that it might light his way home. If the hunt was particularly successful and the kitchen had leftover fresh meat, I would quietly take a small piece, roast it until crispy outside and tender inside, and leave it on the stone step outside his door, retreating to my room before he could notice.

I performed these tasks with extreme stealth, never letting him catch me. Sometimes, hearing his footsteps pass my door, my heart would pound—hoping he might sense my intentions, yet terrified that if he discovered them, it would only invite more harsh reprimands.

Days passed like this. He still acted as if I were invisible, offering only a cold glance when we crossed paths, not deigning to speak a single word. But I didn't lose heart. Grandmother had said sincerity would eventually be seen. I believed if I persisted, even an iceberg could slowly be warmed.

One afternoon, as I was organizing herbs in my room, I heard a commotion from the main dens—shouts and the sound of hurried footsteps. Alarmed, I set down my work and went to investigate.

In the corridor, several young warriors were hurriedly carrying someone toward the main chamber, surrounded by tribespeople with anxious faces. Pushing through, my heart clenched—it was Kyle they were carrying!

His eyes were closed, his face as pale as paper, a fine sheen of cold sweat on his forehead. His left arm hung limply. The black beast-hide armor he wore was soaked with blood from shoulder to wrist, a horrifying sight. His lips were pressed into a tight line, and even unconscious, his brow was deeply furrowed, clearly in immense pain.

"What happened to the Wolf King?" I grabbed the arm of a passing maid, my voice shaking with tension.

"A black bear!" she said, her voice full of fright. "The Wolf King led a hunt against a fully grown one today. It was exceptionally fierce. To protect the others, he was clawed on the arm. The wound is deep!"

A black bear! My heart sank to the pit of my stomach. I'd seen black bears injure people on the plains as a child. Their sharp claws could easily tear through hide. If not treated properly, the wound could fester, and in severe cases, even be fatal.

"The shaman! Get the shaman!" I urged desperately.

"The shaman went to the Grey Wolf tribe to deliver herbs yesterday! He won't be back for three days!" The maid's words felt like a bucket of cold water, dousing my last flicker of hope.

No shaman? Who would treat his wound? I watched them carry Kyle into his chamber, my worry intensifying. I knew he disliked me, but I couldn't stand by and watch his injury worsen. Gritting my teeth, I turned and ran back to my room. I opened my chest and pulled out every usable herb I had—bloodwort to staunch bleeding, dandelion to reduce inflammation, and a salve my grandmother had left me, made from a blend of herbs specifically for deep wounds, highly effective.

I found a clean clay bowl, filled it with warm water, carefully placed the herbs and salve on a wooden tray, took a deep breath, and headed for his chamber. With each step, my heart beat faster, torn between fear of his anger and fear for his wound.

The stone door to his chamber was slightly ajar. I could hear the low murmur of voices inside. Standing at the threshold, I hesitated for a moment, then mustered my courage and pushed the door open.

Inside, several commanders were gathered around the stone bed, looking at the wound on Kyle's arm with worried expressions. Kyle was conscious now, leaning against the cold stone wall, his face still pale. His eyes were downcast, fixed on his mangled arm, his brow furrowed. Sweat dripped down his temples, yet he made no sound, a picture of stubborn endurance.

Hearing my footsteps, they all turned to look at me. Kyle also looked up. When his eyes fell on the tray in my hands, they turned icy. "Who let you in? Get out!"

His voice wasn't loud, but it carried authority, making the tray tremble in my grasp. The commanders looked uncomfortable, wanting to speak but hesitant to challenge the Wolf King.

I gripped the tray handle tightly, my nails digging into the wood. I knew he would be angry, but seeing the blood still seeping from his arm, my concern overpowered my fear. Summoning my courage, I took a step forward. My voice trembled but was firm. "Your wound is deep. The shaman isn't here. If it's not treated, it will get infected. Let me help you."

"I don't need your false concern," Kyle sneered, the chill in his eyes deepening. "I'd rather die of the pain than have you touch me."

"But—"

"Get out!" he cut me off, impatience in his tone. He even moved his other arm as if to shoo me away, but the motion tugged at his injury, making him gasp sharply, his brow tightening further.

Seeing his pain, I could hold back no longer. I strode forward and, before he could refuse again, reached out to examine his wound. The moment my fingertips brushed his blood-soaked armor, his whole body went rigid, muscles tensing as if bracing for an attack.

I thought he would push me away immediately, or erupt in anger. But he just remained frozen, taking no further action. Perhaps the pain was too great, or he simply lacked the strength. In the end, he didn't drive me away.

I let out a breath of relief. Carefully avoiding the wound itself, I undid the fastenings of his armor, exposing the injury on his arm. It was indeed deep, the flesh torn and raw, blood still oozing. The surrounding fur was matted crimson, a gruesome sight. Suppressing my own discomfort, I took a clean linen cloth, dipped it in the warm water, and gently wiped away the blood around the wound.

"This might sting a little," I warned softly, keeping my movements light. When the warm water touched the wound, his body shuddered slightly, but he remained silent. His deep, intense gaze was fixed on me, complex and unreadable. I couldn't tell if it was disgust or something else.

I first crushed the bloodwort into powder and carefully sprinkled it onto the wound. When it made contact, his brow furrowed even tighter, his lips pressed into a straighter line, and more sweat beaded on his forehead. Still, he didn't utter a single groan. Seeing him endure like that, I felt an inexplicable pang of heartache—he was the exalted Wolf King, yet he had to bear such pain.

Once the bleeding slowed, I evenly applied my grandmother's salve. It carried a faint herbal aroma and was effective at preventing infection and promoting healing. Finally, I bandaged his arm with clean linen, tying a secure but not too tight knot, careful not to constrict him.

Throughout the entire process, the room was unusually quiet, filled only with the soft sounds of my wiping and applying the salve, and his occasional, barely audible sharp intakes of breath. The commanders had tactfully slipped out, leaving just the two of us.

As I gathered the scattered herbs and bloodied cloths, picking up the tray, a faint hope stirred within me. He hadn't driven me away just now. He had let me tend his wound. Did it mean his attitude was finally softening? Did it mean my persistence wasn't in vain?

Just as I thought there might be a turning point in our relationship, Kyle spoke again, his voice piercingly cold, like a bucket of water dousing all my hopes.

"Just this once." He looked at me, his eyes devoid of any warmth. "If you dare touch me without permission or barge into my room again, don't blame me for being harsh."

The words struck me like a thunderbolt. The clay bowl in my hand nearly slipped, and I only just managed to steady it. So, it had all been my wishful thinking. He had let me help only because the shaman was absent, because he had no other choice. Not because he was accepting me.

My heart plummeted, as if thrown into an icy pond, a chill reaching my fingertips. I looked at him, my lips moving, but no words came out; my throat felt blocked. All the hurt and disappointment surged up, threatening to overwhelm me.

Fighting back the tears welling in my eyes, I nodded stiffly, my voice hoarse. "I understand."

With that, not daring to look at him again, I picked up the tray and fled his chamber. The door closed softly behind me, severing the connection, shattering the fragile hope that had just begun to spark.

I reached a corner of the corridor and could no longer hold back. Leaning against the cold stone wall, I finally let the tears fall. I had thought myself strong enough, that persistent effort would eventually earn his acknowledgment. But now I saw that no matter what I did, in his eyes, I was merely superfluous, an unwanted stranger.

The clay bowl on the tray still carried the metallic scent of his blood, mixed with the herbal aroma, a combination that now felt unbearably acrid. Clutching the tray, I walked slowly back to my room, dumped its contents onto the floor, and watched the herbs I had so carefully prepared scatter. I felt hollowed out.

Perhaps I really should give up.

The thought appeared in my mind with unprecedented clarity. I thought of my grandmother in the Grey Wolf tribe, of my childhood friends, of that home filled with warmth and laughter. Here, all I found was coldness and hurt. Perhaps returning to the Grey Wolf tribe was the best choice.

But just as I was about to start packing, my gaze fell on the bundle of mint at the bottom of my chest—the mint I had gathered from the back mountain, my first brave attempt to do something for him. Looking at that dried bundle, that stubborn streak rekindled inside me.

Grandmother had said the women of the Grey Wolf tribe did not surrender easily. We faced difficulties with courage. Even if he still didn't accept me, at least he hadn't pushed me away just now. Perhaps if I persisted a little longer, the outcome would be different.

I wiped my tears, knelt, and slowly gathered the scattered herbs, reorganizing them and placing them back in the chest. Then, I took the blood-stained linen to the water basin and began to wash it clean.

The setting sun cast golden light through the den's stone windows, glinting softly on the water's surface. I looked at my reflection—my face looked weary, but my eyes had regained their determination.

I would not give up.

Even if he hurt me repeatedly, even if all my efforts went unrewarded, I would persevere a little longer. I believed that one day, he would see my sincerity, let go of his fixation, and accept me as his destined mate.

What I didn't know then was that this stubborn persistence would lead to deeper hurt in the days to come. And his obsession was far more deeply rooted than I imagined, not something my small gestures of sincerity could easily**.

That night, as usual, I left a small bowl of warm meat broth by his door. I didn't know if he would drink it, or if he would knock it over like before. But I left it anyway, clinging to that***** hope, refusing to give up easily.

The next morning, when I went to retrieve the bowl, I found it empty.

My heart leapt. A long-absent smile touched my lips. Perhaps things were slowly getting better. I hugged the empty bowl, practically skipping back to my room, my steps light.

I thought it was the beginning of his acceptance. I didn't know it was merely a momentary concession on his part. But I, mistaking that small bit of warmth, became even more determined to build a life with him, unknowingly sowing the seeds for even greater pain to come.