"I'll find a way," he rumbles, his jaw ticking. "Azarel… he was going to mark you to save you. They can't tell you…" His voice falters, trails off. "I can't let him."
The conviction in his voice makes my chest tight. This beautiful stranger—no, not a stranger,nevera stranger—speaks like he'd tear down the heavens themselves to keep me alive.
But who are "they"?
And who the hell isAzarel?
I roll the name around in my head, trying to make it stick to something concrete. Nothing surfaces except a vague sense of... anger? Betrayal? The emotions exist without context, free-floating fury that has nowhere to land.
"I don't know who that is," I admit.
The alpha holding me goes very still. Those blue eyes search my face with sudden intensity, like he's worried. I reach up, my hand feeling heavy and disconnected from my body, and thread my fingers through his white hair. It's soft as spun silk.
His eyes flutter closed at the touch and he leans into my palm like a giant cat seeking affection. The gesture fills my chest with warmth that pushes back against the cold trying to claim me.
This alpha—whoever he is, whatever he is—belongs to me.
Not in the sense of ownership. In the sense of recognition. Like finding a piece of yourself you didn't know was missing.
"Are you my protector?" I ask.
"Always," he rumbles against my skin.
A soft smile tugs at my lips. "Good boy," I purr, stroking his hair, and he nuzzles into my palm with his own low rumbling growl of a purr.
I cup his face in both hands, turning him to look at me fully. His full lips part slightly as he gazes at me like I hung the damn moon in the sky. This alpha is so beautiful, it makes my throat tight.
Perfect features, perfect bone structure, perfect everything.
He's…entrancing.
"You're the most beautiful alpha I've ever seen."
He looks away immediately, discomfort flickering across his expression. Like the compliment hurts him.
"Don't," he says quietly.
"Don't what? Tell the truth?"
"I'm not—" He cuts himself off, jaw tightening with pain. "You shouldn't say that. I'm disgusting."
The self-loathing in his voice both breaks my heart and makes no fucking sense.
Here he is, a man who must be the most beautiful person alive, and he thinks he’sdisgusting?
I stare at this perfect face, searching for whatever flaw he thinks he has. There's nothing. Not a single imperfection I can see.
But it's about more than that, too. It’s the way my spirit is so settled in his presence. It’s the low, rumbling hum in his chest that feels like a song I’ve known my entire life. He feels like coming home to a place I’ve never been.
If Iamdying, this is heaven.
"I don't understand," I whisper. "How could you possibly think that?"
He doesn't respond. He still can't look at me.
My certainty comes from somewhere deeper than memory. "I don't know who you are," I say softly. "I don't remember yourname or how we met. But I know you're mine. You could never be disgusting to me, for any reason. Not ever."
He makes a soft, pained growling sound and pulls me closer, burying his face in my hair like he's trying to hide in it. The sudden motion makes me dizzy all of a sudden, and my hands slide down from his face, falling limply to his broad shoulders.
