Second Chance Mates Nova and Braxtons Story

The rain fell into a cold and ruthless curtain, crushing on earth with the regularity of a heartbeat. The metal smell of blood mingled, transported by the wind that rushed between the knotted trees, whistling through the silent forest. There was no more cries, no more grunts of rage or pain. Just this heavy silence, punctuated by the hammer of the downpour.

She gave her teeth and accelerated the step, her boots sinking into the mud. The call had come at dawn, a distant, raucous howl, barely distinct in the dark. She had hesitated. An injured wolf alone. She was no longer used to acting like this, to respond to instinct rather than reason. But something, a deaf pulsation under his skin, had pushed her to come out. So she had grabbed her care kit and sank into the woods.

The path was steep, traitor in the rain which transformed it into a sliding heap. She was not afraid. The darkness of the forest was no longer worrying for her. She had grown there, had learned to listen to the murmurs, to recognize the dangers. It was once a familiar territory, a refuge where she felt in her place. Now it was just a shadow of the past.

She stopped clearly when she saw him.

The dark mass lay between the roots of a tree, a twisted, inert body. Even from a distance, it distinguished the sides raised by difficult, breathtaking breathing. The smell of blood was strong, heady. She knelt, placing her fingers on the soaked coat. He was hot under his palm, but the fever was there, insidious. She folds her eyes, looking for wounds.

The notches were deep. Claws. Crocs. He had fought, and he had lost. Pieces of flesh hung in shreds on its sides, and a gaping wound marked its shoulder. He had not had to flee far before his forces abandoned him.

She sighed and opened her kit, ignoring the unpleasant feeling that tied her stomach. Care him. This is what she knew how to do. Not think. Not wondering where he came from, or why he was alone. Only act.

The minutes went into a familiar monotony. She cleaned, curled up, shining efficiently. The wolf did not react, apart from a few tremors at each pressure too supported. He had to be on the verge of unconsciousness. When she finished, she stood squatting for a moment, staring at the dark, reflecting coat.

She couldn't leave him there.

The idea made her hesitate. Taking care of him here was one thing. Taking her home was another. It's been too long since she had crowned anyone. But leaving him in this rain, injured and unable to defend himself was to sign his death warrant.

She pushed an annoyed sigh, as if she could convince herself that all of this bothered her deeply. Then, carefully, she slipped her arms under the solid body and pulled with all her might. The weight almost unbalanced it, but it held out.

She brought the wolf home.

***

The flames projected a trembling glow on the walls of the room. The smell of blood persisted despite alcohol and ointments. She was washed with her hands, then remained standing, observing the body lying on the table.

She hadn't seen her face yet. He had transformed himself during the journey, his features returning to a human form in a natural process of healing. But she hadn't tried to look at. Maybe because she knew that the answer would not please her.

She ends up approaching, her heart heavier than she would have liked.

He had a pale complexion, almost cadaverous under the sparkle of the lamp. The brown wicks, soaked and tangled, glued to his sweetened forehead. His jaw, once strong and proud, was marked by fatigue and exhaustion. He had changed. Skinny, more marked. But it was him.

She felt something break in her.

The storm of memories fell, brutal, relentless. The nights spent laughing under the moon, the murmurs exchanged in the secret of the woods, the warmth of her arms around her. Then abandonment, tear, the void left behind.

She went back, her fingers closing on the edge of the table as if it could give her a catch on reality. He shouldn't be there. He should no longer exist in his world.

But he was there.

And he was broken.

She looked away, feeling a dull anger getting into her. It was not his problem. It would never be his problem again. She did what she had to do. Cure. Save. Now he would leave.

She turned away and went out, leaving behind the ghost of the past.

***

The cold clung to his skin as a second suffering. He walked without a specific goal, guided by a single necessity: move forward.

Each step sent a throbbing pain along its ribs. He felt blood drying against his skin, a constant reminder of his failure. But it was not the physical pain that overwhelmed him the most.

He had lost everything.

The betrayal had been a dagger drunk so deeply that he doubted one day being able to remove the blade. He had believed in her. He believed that the moon had imposed on him. And he was wrong.

The weight of rejection still haunted him.

He stopped, his fists tense. His legs trembled under him, his breath was short. His body demanded rest, but her mind was screaming.

He had been king. Now he was nothing.

A thrill crossed him. The fever was gaining ground. He knew that he would not go further.

Then he felt something. A presence. Heat.

He opened his eyes, but his vision was blurred. He only lives a silhouette, a glow in the middle of nothingness. Hands that touched him, which wore him.

A smell.

Stealthy, familiar.

A memory broke out in his mind, a fleeting image, a voice he thought disappeared.