Chapter 6

Valencia’s POV

Alpha Logan set me down on the massive bed, and I immediately scrambled backward toward the edge. The softness was shocking after years of sleeping on stone floors. I pressed my back against the headboard, my hands gripping the dark bedsheets.

"I can't," I whispered, shaking my head frantically. "I'm just a slave. I shouldn't be on your bed."

His gray eyes fixed on me with unreadable expression. He didn't move closer, but his presence filled the entire room.

"Stay here," he said, his voice flat and commanding.

The words hit me like a physical blow. I wanted to explain that this was wrong. But the authority in his voice made my protests die in my throat.

I nodded, not daring to meet his eyes. "Yes, Alpha."

He walked out the room, and I heard him speak to his Beta in the hallway. "Dorian, send the pack doctor. Now."

"A doctor?" came the Beta's surprised voice. "For the slave?"

"Do it," Alpha Logan's voice carried a warning.

My mouth fell open in shock. A doctor? For me? In all my years of slavery, I had never received medical care. When slaves were injured, they either healed on their own or died. The concept of an Alpha caring enough to call a doctor for a slave was incomprehensible.

I pressed myself further into the corner of the bed, trying to make myself as small as possible. The iron collar around my neck felt heavier than ever, a constant reminder of what I was. What I would always be.

"Gather intelligence on the rogue attack. I want to know who organized it and why they targeted the funeral."

"Yes, Alpha," came Dorian's immediate response.

Their footsteps faded down the hallway, leaving me in silence.

I sat on the edge of the bed, my feet barely touching the cold stone floor. Everything about this situation felt surreal. Just hours ago, I had been tied to a stone pillar, waiting to die.

The room around me was surprisingly sparse. The walls were bare stone, the furniture simple and functional. A wooden chest sat against one wall, a single chair near the cold fireplace. It might be the room of a warrior.

A soft knock interrupted my thoughts. "Come in," I called hesitantly.

An elderly man entered, carrying a worn leather bag. He had kind eyes and graying hair. This had to be the pack doctor.

"Well now," he said gently, setting his bag on the chair. "Let me have a look at you."

He approached slowly. "I'm Dr. Vance. Can you tell me where you're hurt?"

I touched my back carefully. "The whip cuts. And my arm where the rogue clawed me."

Dr. Vance nodded, his expression growing serious. "May I examine your injuries?"

The question surprised me. He was asking permission? No one had ever asked my permission for anything.

"Yes," I whispered.

His examination was thorough but gentle. He cleaned my wounds with care, applying salve that stung at first but then brought relief.

"These cuts are deep, but they'll heal cleanly if you keep them clean," he said, wrapping bandages around my arm. "The whip marks on your back will take longer. Some of them have been reopened multiple times."

I nodded, not trusting my voice.

"You're severely malnourished," he continued, pressing gently on my ribs. "When did you last have a proper meal?"

I tried to remember. "I don't know. A long time ago."

Dr. Vance's jaw tightened with what looked like anger, but his touch remained gentle. "Well, we'll fix that. You need rest, food, and time to heal."

When he finished, he packed his supplies carefully. "The Alpha has requested that I check on you daily until you're recovered."

Daily visits? My shock must have shown on my face because Dr. Vance smiled kindly.

"Alpha Logan may not show emotion often, but he protects what's his," he said. "Rest now. Let your body heal."

After he left, I was alone again with my confused thoughts. What did he mean by "what's his"? I was just a slave he had taken from the funeral. There had to be some purpose he wanted me alive and healthy.

The sound of footsteps in the hallway made me freeze, but they passed by without stopping. Alpha Logan hadn't returned.

Time passed slowly. I remained perched on the edge of the bed, afraid to lie down properly. Another knock came at the door, different from before - sharper, more impatient.

"Come in," I called.

A young man entered carrying a tray of food. The smell hit me immediately - roasted meat, fresh bread, something rich and savory that made my stomach clench with desperate hunger. He set the tray on the small table near the chair, then turned to look at me.

His eyes swept over my torn dress and the iron collar around my neck. His expression shifted from neutral to disdainful, and he made a sound of disgust in his throat.

"Who sent this?" I asked quietly, gesturing toward the food.

He looked at me like I was something unpleasant he'd stepped in. Without answering, he walked out and slammed the door behind him.

I stared at the tray, my mouth watering. There was venison stew with chunks of meat and vegetables, fresh bread that was still warm, and even a goblet of red wine. It was more food than I usually saw in a week.

But was it for me? Maybe Alpha Logan was planning to eat when he returned. Maybe the servant had made a mistake.

My stomach cramped with hunger, and I pressed my hand against it. I hadn't eaten anything substantial in days. The small portions of gruel and stale bread that slaves received barely kept us alive.

I waited. And waited. Alpha Logan didn't return.

The smell of the food was torture. My hands shook with hunger, and I felt dizzy from the combination of blood loss and starvation. I couldn't think about anything except how desperately I needed to eat.

I couldn't stand it anymore. That’s my last thought. If I was going to be punished for eating food that wasn't meant for me, so be it. At least I would die with a full stomach for once.

I moved to the chair and picked up the wooden spoon with trembling hands. The first bite of stew nearly made me cry. The meat was tender and flavorful, the broth rich and warming. I had forgotten that food could taste like this.

I ate like the starving animal I was, shoving bread into my mouth between spoonfuls of stew. For the first time in years, I felt truly satisfied.

I was licking the last drops of stew from the bowl when heavy footsteps echoed in the hallway. I froze, the spoon halfway to my mouth.

The door burst open without a knock.

A woman strode in, and I knew immediately that she was someone important. She was tall and strong, with auburn hair braided back from her face. She wore leather armor, and her hand rested casually on the sword at her hip.

Her eyes found me sitting at the table with the empty dishes, and her expression transformed into pure rage.

"You," she snarled, pointing at me. "You're the slave Dorian mentioned. What the fuck are you doing in Alpha Logan's room?"