Chapter 44: Safe In His Arms

Aina

Aina ran... and ran.

She didn’t dare look behind her, not even once. She just kept sprinting, though the world was nothing more than an unreadable, watery blur. She gathered the heavy folds of the gown into her fists, hauling the fabric up to keep from tripping as her bare feet slapped rhythmically against the cold, wet mud. The dark trees of the forest melted together as she pushed herself faster, stubbornly ignoring the raw, burning sensation spreading across her chest.

She ignored her own scent, too, the sweet trail of jasmine spilling into the night air with every panicked breath. Fear choked her. She was terrified that someone was tracking her, that one of those wolves would realize she was lying, spot the resemblance she shared with "Travis," and finally connect the dots.

The faster she ran, the tighter panic gripped her heart, so tightly that she failed to notice the silhouette that materialized directly in front of her in the blink of an eye.

She slammed straight into the figure. Because all of her senses were completely fried from shock and overload, she hadn’t caught a trace of a scent until the impact.

Oh no.

Dread flooded her veins. She pictured herself being dragged back to the academy, forced down onto her knees before the princes. Begging for mercy didn’t bother her, she was no stranger to swallowing her pride and begging to survive. What truly terrified her was being exposed. She knew the princes well enough after less than five interactions to know they would turn on her in a heartbeat, even if she was their mate. They were heartless, incapable of caring about anyone but themselves.

"Aina."

The voice was cool, crisp, and impossibly gentle as it cut through the rush of wind in her ears. Recognizing the sound, Aina dragged her gaze up from the muddy ground, her blurred sight meeting a pair of striking red eyes.

"Headmaster?" she managed to squeeze out, her voice raspy and heavy. Her chest heaved violently, fighting for air that felt like fire in her lungs. Curse these weak lungs. Even a short sprint felt like it was going to kill her.

"Ho—" she gasped, clutching her chest as her lungs threatened to combust. "How—"

Her eyelids grew impossibly heavy. Her knees buckled beneath her, giving out entirely. But before she could hit the mud, as her vision flickered in and out, Roiner caught her gently in his arms.

"Shh... it’s alright. All will be well. I am here now."

Those soft words were the last thing she heard before unwillingly succumbing to the dark, unaware of whether she would ever open her eyes to see another sunrise.

Roiner

The private quarters of the Headmaster were draped in quiet shadow, far removed from the thumping bass and frantic energy of the forest cabin.

Roiner stood motionless near a bed, his long, dark silhouette casting an imposing shadow across the room. The apartment was built from centuries-old slate and dark timber, carrying the heavy, subdued atmosphere of an ancient vampire’s sanctuary. Odd, forgotten artifacts from long-dead packs lined the stone alcoves, grotesque obsidian carvings, ancient astrological brass globes, and leather-bound grimoires thick with dust. Atop a tall bookcase, a jet-black cat stretched lazily, its glowing amber eyes tracking Roiner with quiet, animal indifference.

On the grand canopy bed in the center of the room, Aina lay entirely still. Roiner’s crimson eyes lingered on her small, fragile frame. She looked painfully out of place amidst the dark slate and heavy tapestries, drowning in the oversized expanse of white linen sheets.

"She passed out from a severe lack of oxygen, little hybrid," a sharp, raspy voice broke through the quiet.

Nurse Clara stepped away from the side of the bed, wiping her hands on a clean cloth. Despite being a wolf-shifter and centuries younger than Roiner, the old woman treated the intimidating Headmaster with the casual, scolding familiarity one reserved for a headstrong grandchild.

"She has asthma," Clara continued, shaking her head as she adjusted her apron. "The poor child is lucky to be breathing at all. If you hadn’t caught her when you did, her lungs would have completely collapsed in that cold night air."

Roiner shifted slightly, his heavy brow furrowing in genuine confusion. The thought of losing her, this girl he had only just held in his arms for a fleeting moment sent an icy claw of panic tearing through his chest.

"Asthma?" Roiner echoed, his deep, resonant voice rich with disbelief. "How is that possible, Clara? She is a wolf-shifter. Their physical constitutions are designed to regenerate and endure. A shifter cannot suffer from human pulmonary frailties." Clara let out a dry, tired sigh, turning to look down at Aina’s peaceful, sleeping face.

"She can if her wolf is exceptionally weak," Clara explained gently. "The poor girl likely cannot even shift into her beast form. Her inner wolf is dormant, barely a whisper in her bloodline. That is why her eyes are purple. The violet pigment is a classic sign of an underdeveloped shifter spirit."

Clara walked over to the dark wooden side table, picking up a pair of thick, battered spectacles. The frames were scuffed, uneven, and looked as though they had been crudely cobbled together out of cheap wire and plastic, like a child’s desperate arts-and-crafts project.

"Look at these," Clara muttered, holding them up to the dim light before setting them back down with a soft click. "She can barely see a foot in front of her face. These glasses might have worked when she was a small child, but her eyesight has outgrown them entirely. She’s walking around practically blind."

Roiner stepped closer to the bedside, his Crimson gaze falling on the crude glasses. Mentally, he logged every single detail, engraving them into his mind with absolute precision. An inhaler. New spectacles.

"What specific prescription does she require?" Roiner asked, his tone dropping into a low, deadly serious register. "High-index polycarbonate lenses," Clara replied without hesitation. "Severe astigmatism combined with deep myopia. She needs proper, high-grade anti-reflective corrective lenses crafted by a specialist. And an albuterol inhaler—a strong one—to keep on her person at all times."

Roiner nodded once, a silent vow taking root in his mind. He would have the finest optical craftsmen in the capital construct ten pairs by tomorrow evening. "Her vitals have stabilized now," Clara said, gathering her medical satchel from the foot of the bed. "She just needs sleep. I must return to the main infirmary now, Headmaster. The Iron Fang Bash has ended, and as usual, half the students have dragged themselves back with broken knuckles, fractured ribs, and torn hides."

"Thank you, Clara," Roiner said softly, offering the old woman a respectful nod. "Your service is, as always, beyond measure." Clara paused near the archway leading to the door, turning back to look at Roiner. A knowing, gentle smile creased the corners of her wrinkled face.

"Take proper care of your fated mate, little hybrid," Clara said quietly. "A soul only receives one in a lifetime. Do not let your stoic pride ruin it." Roiner stiffened, a rare flicker of shock breaking through his composure. "How could you possibly know—"

Clara let out a soft, rasping laugh. "You may be an ancient hybrid, Roiner, but you are utterly terrible at hiding your heart when it matters. I saw the way you sprinted down the stone corridors to fetch me. I saw how you carried her into this room as if she were made of glass. You have never looked at anyone like that in all the years I’ve known you. It takes no grand magic to see that she belongs to you, and you to her."

Before Roiner could formulate a response, the old nurse slipped out the door, letting the heavy oak panel click shut behind her. Silence descended upon the room once more. Roiner turned back toward the bed, standing over Aina like a silent sentinel.

His ancient, dead heart, a heart that had remained cold and unyielding for centuries, fluttered erratically within his ribs. It was an agonizing, terrifying sensation. He did not know this girl. He did not know her mind, her past, or her dreams. Yet he craved her presence with a terrifying, absolute desperation. He felt like a helpless captive to his own sudden, overwhelming emotions.

Slowly, almost reverently, Roiner reached out a long, pale hand. He extended a single finger, hovering just above her forehead before gently resting his skin against hers.

Her skin was soft, warm, and radiating the vibrant heat of a living, breathing creature. The contrast against his own icy touch was staggering. Roiner’s breath hitched as a sharp spark of warmth traveled up his arm, setting his blood ablaze. In her sleep, Aina’s breathing shifted. She let out a soft, contented sigh, her head tilting slightly as she leaned her cheek directly into his palm, using his hand like a warm pillow.

Roiner’s heart thumped wildly against his ribs. He carefully cradled her small cheek, his thumb brushing over her soft skin with infinite gentleness. Then, his eyes fell upon her hands. Small, white medical plasters were neatly affixed to her knuckles and wrists—plasters Clara had applied to cover raw scrapes, blue bruises, and torn skin.

Instantly, the serene warmth in the room shattered. Roiner’s crimson eyes flared into a blinding, dangerous blood-red.

The princes.

He knew instantly who had caused those marks. Malric, Vance, and Theo had disobeyed his direct orders. He had explicitly warned them not to touch the Whitelock boy, yet they had launched a ruthless hunt, driving his weak, fragile mate through the dark woods until her lungs nearly gave out.

For centuries, Roiner had allowed the royal bloodlines to run amok within the academy walls. He had turned a blind eye to their arrogance, their cruel games, and their relentless bullying, just as every Headmaster before him had done to keep the peace with the Crown. He had let them believe they owned this academy. He had let them believe they were untouchable.

Mauling commoners was one thing.

Laying their filthy, arrogant hands on his fated mate was a death sentence.

"They have forgotten who rules these lands," Roiner whispered, his low voice vibrating with a terrifying, predatory promise that made the black cat on the bookshelf flatten its ears in fear. "They think themselves kings because of the blood in their veins... but they are about to learn what happens when you cross a hybrid."