Chapter 0177

Taking Seraphina into the bathroom, I sense her expectation—she thinks I'll do something inappropriate. So I deliberately avoid looking at her. Mostly.

Her body is already imprinted in my memory from when she was unconscious. Every protruding rib, the sharp angles of her hips, the way her shoulders are more bone than flesh. She's tiny, yes, but also starved. I can't wait to see her fill out. Dorian and I will make sure she never goes hungry again.

"Lean back," I instruct, starting to wash her hair. Her gaze burns into me, but I resist the urge to glance down. One meal hasn’t changed anything. Instead, I meet her eyes and wink.

She jerks in surprise.

The soft whimper she makes when my fingers massage her scalp sends warmth through me. Taking care of my mate feels right. Dorian purrs in approval as her body slowly relaxes under my touch.

I want to ask her more, but I won’t ruin this moment. For once, she isn’t tense, isn’t calculating an escape.

Then she asks the dangerous question: Why are you doing this?

Telling her we're mates isn’t an option—not when her wolf is still weak. Not when her past with Alphas is clearly traumatic. So I trust my instincts.

"You were injured. Dying when you stumbled into my territory." My voice stays steady. "Yes, you're a rogue, but you’ve suffered enough. Protecting those who can’t protect themselves is an Alpha’s duty—even to outsiders."

She frowns but stays silent.

Through the mind link, I thank the omegas and request two trays of food. Nathaniel will bring them up.

The salt of her tears hits me before I see them. She’s studying her scars—raised, uneven marks covering nearly every inch of her. To me, they’re proof of survival.

"Not many could’ve endured what you have," I say honestly. Her strength isn’t in her body but in her will. A reminder not to underestimate her.

Her hair, finally untangled, is impossibly long and silken. I stroke it longer than necessary, savoring the feel. She mentioned cutting it. I hope she doesn’t go too short.

Everything about her is striking. Hair so pale it’s beyond blonde. Eyes a foggy gray—not blue-gray or green-gray, just gray, like storm clouds. I only noticed when rinsing her hair, our faces close.

Standing, I offer a towel. "Need more time?"

"No." She shows me her pruned fingers. "Thank you."

I drain the tub and hold the towel open, giving her privacy as she stands before wrapping her in it and lifting her out.

"I can walk," she murmurs.

I raise a brow. "Last time you tried, you face-planted. Let’s get more food in you first."