CHAPTER 27: LET’S PLAY PRETEND

It began quietly, the way most dangerous things do.

Devon’s headaches returned first. Subtle pulses behind his eyes that he dismissed as fatigue. Then the faint tremor in his hands. Then, finally, the warmth under his skin whenever he tried to suppress the vibration of power inside him.

It was happening again.

He should’ve stopped when he first felt it, but the thought gnawed at him constantly, the whispers of inadequacy, the doubts that crawled up every time he caught someone calling him Luna.

He didn’t deserve the title. He wasn’t strong enough. Not graceful enough. Not one of them. He couldn’t even stand beside Lucien without feeling like an imposter.

So when the mansion fell asleep, Devon stayed awake, hunched over the candlelight in one of the storage rooms, drawing runes across the wooden floor with trembling fingers. His blood served as ink again, his magic flickering between scarlet and blue, unpredictable, wild.

He whispered ancient words he didn’t understand but somehow knew, the language rising unbidden from somewhere deep within him. The air crackled. The runes glowed. And then everything went wrong.

The light flared violently, throwing him backward. Pain shot through his body, as though every nerve was being set aflame. He gasped, choking on his breath, his vision swimming. The markings on the floor turned unstable, writhing like living serpents before fading into ash.

Devon barely managed to crawl toward the wall, clutching his chest, his body trembling violently. "No... not now..."

Then the world tilted sideways.

He didn’t even feel himself hit the floor.

Lucien found him hours later.

He’d been reviewing reports in his study when the faint pulse of magic tremored through the mansion’s wards, subtle, erratic, yet unmistakably powerful. At first, he thought it was a mistake, perhaps a servant tripping a protection charm. But the longer he waited, the more wrong it felt. The magic wasn’t just wild. It was bleeding with intense power.

Lucien moved instantly.

His boots echoed down the corridor, the scent of burning wax and iron thickening as he neared the storage wing. And then he saw it, the faint light spilling from under the door, the metallic tang of blood, the smell of magic gone astray.

He kicked the door open.

The scene inside made his heart stop.

Devon lay collapsed on the floor, pale as snow, blood smeared across his palms where the half-finished runes glowed faintly before flickering out. His breath was shallow, his pulse erratic.

"Devon," Lucien said sharply, crouching beside him.

No response. Only a faint groan.

Lucien’s chest tightened.

"Fool," he muttered under his breath, though the word came out softer, almost pained.

He didn’t waste another moment. Gathering Devon into his arms, he felt the warmth of fever seeping through the man’s skin. His head lolled against Lucien’s shoulder, his breathing ragged.

Lucien’s eyes glowed faintly, his magic brushing against Devon’s aura, and what he found made his blood run cold. The flow of energy within Devon was fractured, chaotic, like a river forced to run against its own current.

He shouldn’t have survived using power like that.

Lucien carried him silently through the darkened halls, his expression unreadable, though every muscle in his jaw screamed restraint. He could’ve called for healers, but the magic was too... unfamiliar. No ordinary wolf could treat this. And if anyone found out.

No.

Lucien’s grip tightened protectively.

This would remain between them.

When he reached his private chambers, he laid Devon carefully on the bed, wiping the blood from his hands with a damp cloth. The fever had worsened. His skin burned, his breath coming in harsh, shallow pulls.

Lucien exhaled slowly, his hand hovering over Devon’s chest. "You really are a danger to yourself."

He closed his eyes, summoning his own energy, a controlled, steady warmth that pulsed from his palm into Devon’s chest. The mansion’s magic stirred faintly in response, as if recognizing the man before him.

Devon’s body arched slightly at the contact, his lips parting in a weak gasp.

Lucien frowned. "Breathe, Devon. Don’t fight it."

He guided the energy gently, repairing the threads torn apart by Devon’s reckless spellwork. It was slow, draining work, even for an Alpha with Lucien’s control, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t.

By the time the fever broke, dawn had crept through the windows.

Lucien sat at Devon’s bedside, exhaustion tugging at his eyelids. He hadn’t slept at all. The fire had long burned out, leaving only dim coals and the soft sound of Devon’s steady breathing.

For a long while, Lucien simply stared at the faint flush returning to Devon’s cheeks, at the calm that replaced the pain. Something in his chest ached, sharp and quiet.

He brushed a stray lock of hair from Devon’s forehead, his voice barely a whisper. "Why must you always do this to yourself?"

Devon murmured faintly in his sleep, something incoherent, Lucien’s name, maybe.

Lucien froze, then slowly pulled his hand back. He stood, straightened his coat, and forced his expression back into neutrality. By the time the servants arrived with morning reports, the Alpha of Blackridge looked composed, unreadable, and cold as ever.

When Devon woke later that afternoon, his body ached all over. He blinked at the unfamiliar ceiling, then at the heavy blanket wrapped around him. It took a moment for realization to dawn. Lucien’s scent lingered faintly on the sheets.

Panic shot through him. He sat up too fast, his head spinning, hand clutching his chest. "How..."

The door creaked open. Rowan stepped in with a tray of broth, stopping short at the sight of him awake. "You’re up. Good. The Alpha said you’re to rest today."

Devon frowned. "Lucien?"

Rowan nodded, setting the tray down. "He found you passed out in one of the storage rooms. Said you were probably overworking yourself."

Devon’s stomach dropped.

He found me...

"He didn’t... say anything else?"

Rowan shook his head. "Just that you were safe now. He was up all night, I think."

Devon looked down, his chest tightening. He remembered flashes, warmth on his skin, a voice whispering his name through the haze of fever. He thought it was a dream.

Apparently not.

"Thank you," he murmured softly.

Rowan smiled faintly. "You’re lucky, you know. The Alpha doesn’t lose sleep over anyone."

When he left, Devon stared at the untouched tray before him, his thoughts spinning.

He remembered the runes, the blood, the magic surging out of control. He remembered Lucien’s voice, calm and firm, pulling him back from the edge. And now, as he pressed a trembling hand to his chest, he could feel the faint echo of Lucien’s inner force still there, a quiet pulse, steady and protective.

He closed his eyes.

That night, when Lucien passed him in the corridor, Devon stopped briefly, as if to say something. But Lucien only nodded once, curtly, politely, before walking on without a word. As if nothing had happened. As if he hadn’t carried Devon in his arms through the night, saving him in silence.

Devon watched his retreating back, the ache returning to his chest.

He whispered to himself, "Why do you keep pretending you don’t care?"

But Lucien never turned around.