CHAPTER 36: BEAUTIFUL STRANGER

Soft light filtered through sheer curtains, pale and silver like moon-washed mist. Devon stirred for the first time in hours, maybe days, he couldn’t be sure.

His body felt like a crumpled sheet of paper left out in the rain, every limb soaked with exhaustion and pain. It was the slow, muffled kind of waking that came after running too far, bleeding too much, and caring far more than he was supposed to.

A cool touch brushed his feverish forehead.

Devon’s eyelids fluttered open, vision blurry, edges swimming like ripples in water. A shape leaned over him, tall, graceful, wrapped in white. When Devon blinked again, things sharpened.

The face hovering above him wasn’t human. And it wasn’t a werewolf.

Pale white hair cascaded down like a waterfall of snow, smooth and straight, adorned by faint silvery beads woven into thin braids near the ears. His skin had the faint glow of moonlight, too smooth, too perfect. And his eyes, sharp, elongated, with irises like glacial pools, were unmistakably elven.

"You are awake sooner than expected," the elf murmured, voice like wind passing through crystal. He dipped the cloth again into a bowl at Devon’s bedside. "But do not speak yet. Your strength has not returned."

Devon tried to move, but even the slightest attempt set fire in his veins. His throat constricted, dry and tight. He parted his lips, but nothing came out except a rasp.

"Hush," the elf said, placing a gentle but firm palm on Devon’s chest to keep him still. "Your body is in chaos. You drew too deeply from your core. If I had found you an hour later..." The elf paused, brows knitting. "No. Rest. Words can come later."

Devon wanted to ask where he was. He wanted to ask who the elf was. He wanted to ask why there was a strange white glow pulsing faintly beneath his skin, magic reacting in chaotic threads that he could neither control nor understand. But he couldn’t speak. Not a single sound.

The elf folded the towel neatly and placed it on Devon’s brow again. The gesture was strangely comforting. Almost... caring.

"My name can wait," the elf continued, sensing Devon’s questions without being asked. "You are safe here. The forest itself guided me to you. That alone is... unusual."

Unusual...

Devon wanted to laugh, but his lungs were too weak.

Somewhere far beyond this quiet room, beyond the delicate scent of herbs and the soft glow of elven lamps...

Lucien was tearing through the forest.

Miles away, a storm of rage and desperation burned through the Alpha of Ravenmoon. The branches snapped under his claws as he ran, eyes fever-bright with fear he refused to name.

He had not slept. Had barely eaten. Had not allowed anyone to slow him down.

Devon was gone.

His Luna, contracted or not, was gone.

Every hunter in the pack was deployed, every scout following faint traces of Devon’s scent. But the trail always faded too quickly, swallowed by cold air and shifting magic.

Lucien refused to believe Devon had simply disappeared without leaving a trace.

Someone had taken him.

Someone had dared touch what was his.

He tore through brambles, voice hoarse from days of calling Devon’s name into endless trees.

Devon,

he growled through their fragile bond, the very bond he’d denied, shut away, buried for the sake of the pack. Where are you?

No answer. No spark of emotion. No whisper of presence. Only silence, heavy and haunting. And in that silence, the truth Lucien didn’t want to face wrapped fingers around his throat.

He must be dying.

The thought was a knife shoved between his ribs. And it pushed him harder, faster.

Back in the elven sanctuary, Devon’s lashes fluttered weakly. The elf noticed.

"You are restless," he said softly, adjusting the blankets around him. "Is it fear? Pain? Or guilt?"

Devon’s chest tightened.

Everything.

All of it.

Tears threatened to escape from the corners of his eyes, hot, humiliating, unbidden. But the elf only sighed.

"You have carried burdens too heavy for your age," he murmured. "Rest more. When you wake again, we will speak of what you truly are."

Devon’s breathing slowed. His eyes closed. And while he drifted into uneasy sleep...

Lucien lifted his head in the distant forest, his wolf catching a faint trace of something familiar. Something that made his heart slam against his ribs.

"Devon..." he breathed.

And he ran toward it with everything he had left.

Warm...

Soft, steady warmth.

Devon couldn’t remember the last time he felt it. His consciousness floated somewhere between dreaming and waking, trapped in a fog thicker than smoke. When he finally blinked his eyes open, the world around him appeared hazy, washed in tones of silver and pale gold. A ceiling woven from shimmering threads of magic arched overhead like starlight trapped in wood.

Someone moved beside him. A cool cloth brushed across his forehead, wiping away the lingering fever-sweat. Devon’s eyes shifted sluggishly, trying to focus on the figure sitting beside him. A man, no, not quite a man, leaned over him, his features ethereal and sharp as though carved from moonlight.

His skin was pale, almost luminous. Long white hair braided down his back, tied with thin threads of argent metal. His ears were slender and elegantly pointed, unmistakably elven. The long robe he wore was a cascade of white and silver, embroidered with runic glyphs that pulsed faintly with magic.

"You are awake," the elf said softly, voice like the rustling of leaves in winter. "Do not strain yourself. Your strength has not returned."

Devon parted his lips, trying to speak, but only a faint rasp escaped. His throat ached. His body felt like broken glass patched together with trembling hands.

The elf pressed a gentle palm to his sternum, easing him back onto the bed.

"You need more rest," he said firmly, though his tone was kind. "Your body was nearly depleted of life essence when we found you. You have been unconscious for three days after you woke up the first time."

Three days?

Devon’s heart lurched painfully.

Lucien, Elias, the pack.

Did they think he was dead?

But the elf lifted the cloth again, repeating the slow, soothing motion over his fever-warmed skin, and Devon’s panic dulled beneath exhaustion.