We froze in place. I watched a single drop of blood trace a slow path down his forearm, painting a vivid scarlet line against his skin before vanishing over the back of his hand.
The gash was far deeper than I had initially thought, and a sudden spike of guilt and strange, aching panic twisted deep in my gut.
I snapped out of my daze as he slowly set the bent iron rod aside. He inspected the ruined wall with a faint scowl, completely indifferent to his injury, as if a bleeding wound were a minor inconvenience beneath his notice.
"This place is unsafe," he stated quietly.
As he spoke, the suffocating weight of his predatory aura began to recede, dissolving into the quiet air of the room. His tone had leveled out, turning low and even, though a dangerous ember still flickered deep in his eyes.
"It’s just an old building; it’s not that bad... Annie and I did the wall repairs ourselves, and I guess I didn’t patch that spot properly. I’m really not an expert on construction materials. I watched this video that said you’re supposed to install a wooden anchor first, and then—" I cut myself off the moment his heavy, furrowed gaze snapped back to me.
I was babbling. It was a pathetic, nervous habit I hated about myself—rambling endlessly just to fill the silence and mask my terror.
The guilt of causing his injury gnawed at me.
"I’m... I’m sorry," I squeezed out, dropping my gaze to the floorboards. A wave of burning shame washed over me, so intense I wished the floor would swallow me whole.
"They assign you rooms with hollow walls and unfinished repairs?"
"It was only that one tiny section missing! It really isn’t a big deal, someone probably just yanked an old fixture out—"
My defense only seemed to stoke his irritation. His expression hardened, his eyes growing impossibly heavy.
Ignoring his scowl, I walked over to my nightstand and pulled out a small cloth pouch containing my emergency medical supplies. Setting it on the desk, I retrieved a bottle of hydrogen peroxide, cotton pads, a tube of healing ointment, and a large adhesive bandage.
I knew that as an alpha wolf, his injury would heal in no time, but I could not help it. If that wound got infected somehow, the guilt would eat me alive.
Magnus remained rooted to the spot, inspecting the hole in the wall and the bent metal rod while blood from his injured arm dripped steadily onto the linoleum. I edged closer, hesitating before gently tugging at the cuff of his shirt to catch his attention. The lingering silence felt unbearable, and with dawn creeping closer, my body was begging for sleep.
"Come on. Let me clean your wound."
He turned his arm over, exposing a jagged scrape along his forearm. It wasn’t remarkably deep, and I could already see it closing up.
"It’s fine. It’ll heal on its own soon," he grunted, pulling back.
I stood my ground, mostly because I had to do something to mask my guilty feelings. I hated to feel responsible for hurting others.
"No, let me... do this."
He let out a heavy sigh, stepped toward the desk where I had laid out the medical supplies, and sank onto the chair, extending his arm in silent surrender.
I sat beside him, soaked a cotton pad in hydrogen peroxide, and began carefully cleaning the edges of the wound. As the liquid frothed against his skin, I instinctively blew on the scrape—a gentle breath to dull the sting.
A quiet, low huff sounded right above my head.
I looked up and locked eyes with him. His dark eyes were wide, watching me with an intense, probing scrutiny. I froze as the utter absurdity of what I was doing dawned on me. I was blowing on the scrape of a massive, lethal Alpha as if he were a human toddler.
Working at the cat-and-rabbit cafe, I had treated countless minor scratches on children who got too enthusiastic while petting the animals. Blowing on their cuts kept them from crying, and the habit had stuck.
"What?" I muttered, feeling a sudden heat rush to my cheeks.
"Why did you do that?"
"So it wouldn’t sting..."
"Does it look like it stings?" He continued to hold my gaze, waiting for an answer.
A tiny spark of defiance flickered inside me. The sheer terror from earlier had receded, replaced by a strange, exhausted boldness.
"Actually, I was attempting an ancient air-drying technique. I heard monks in the mountains practice it," I blurted out, keeping my expression entirely deadpan.
"What monks?" he asked, his brow furrowing in genuine confusion.
I choked back a laugh at his bewildered expression. "You know, the ones living in high-altitude monasteries. They hang fruit out in the mountain wind to dry it out into jerky. I was trying to dry your wound the same way."
"Do I look like a piece of fruit to you?"
"Well... there’s definitely a certain resemblance."
"And what kind of fruit am I supposed to be?"
"A dragon fruit, obviously."
"When was your last psychiatric evaluation?"
He rested his elbow on the table, leaning his jaw against his fist. Our conversation was verging on complete absurdity.
"Why, are you worried?" I teased, testing my newfound courage.
"No. I’m just calculating how long of a drive it’ll be to visit you in the ward when your condition flares up," he countered smoothly.
A soft laugh escaped my lips. It almost felt like banter—though I doubted a cold, dominant Alpha like Magnus was intentionally flirting.
"I thought they didn’t allow visitors in those places."
I finished dressing the wound and smoothed down a large adhesive bandage. Printed across the white surface were cartoon hippos wearing bright pink diapers. While I used to think the design was cute, it looked utterly ridiculous pressed against his muscular, scarred forearm. Magnus stared at the fashion choice in silent disapproval, but surprisingly, he didn’t tear it off.
As I began packing the peroxide and cotton back into the pouch, he unbuttoned his dress shirt, slipped it off his shoulders, and reached for his belt buckle.
I spun around, staring at him in shock as the fragile peace in the room instantly evaporated.
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