Into the Alpha’s Keep Chapter 61: 61

POV Savannah Bowen

Fenrir was uncharacteristically subdued when we finally crossed the threshold of home. The silence between us hung heavy, a palpable void where words should have been.

He didn’t utter a single syllable, his lips pressed into a thin line as though the effort to speak might drain what little strength he had left. His presence, usually so commanding, felt muted, and I couldn’t tell if it was exhaustion or something deeper—something unspoken—that kept him quiet.

I watched him from the corner of my eye, searching for a flicker of the fire that usually burned in his gaze, but found only shadows.

As for me, a faint dizziness swirled in my head, a lingering weakness tugging at my limbs like an unwelcome guest.

Yet, strangely, the sharp, searing pain from my wounds had faded into a distant memory. I glanced down at my calf, marveling at the transformation: the skin, once torn and ragged, now glowed with a soft pinkish hue, tender and freshly knit together.

The savage bite marks—jagged, cruel imprints of that bastard’s teeth—had vanished entirely, leaving no trace of the violence they’d inflicted.

It was as though the injury belonged to another time, an old scar smoothed over by some unnatural grace, far less horrific than the reality I’d endured.

And yet, despite the healing, a shiver clawed its way up my spine as the memory assaulted me—those razor-sharp fangs sinking into my flesh, ripping through muscle and sinew with merciless intent.

I could still feel the phantom heat of blood pooling, the sickening tear of skin giving way.

But the physical agony, as brutal as it had been, paled in comparison to the deeper wound that night had carved into me. My calf might have been shredded, its surface now deceptively whole, but the true trauma—the indelible mark that bastard had left—went beyond flesh.

It was a violation, a branding that seared into my very being, a stain I couldn’t wash away.

It wasn’t just the pain that lingered; it was the despair, a hollow ache that reverberated through the depths of my soul, whispering that this wasn’t right, that it never should have happened.

That bastard had taken something from us, something intangible yet vital, and the weight of it pressed against my chest like a stone.

I descended the stairs with deliberate care, my hand gripping the banister as if it could anchor me against the storm of emotions swirling within.

The bath had been a small salvation, its warm embrace sluicing away the grime and blood, leaving me feeling renewed despite the exhaustion that clung to my bones.

No matter how weary I was, an unexpected lightness buoyed me—I didn’t feel sad. It was strange, almost surreal, to realize that unburdening myself about Selena had shifted something inside me.

Telling Fenrir the truth, laying bare the secret I’d carried like a millstone since arriving in Dăneşti, had lifted a weight I hadn’t fully acknowledged until it was gone.

The relief wasn’t loud or triumphant; it was quiet, a gentle unraveling of the knots that had twisted my heart for weeks.

He knew about my sister now—Selena, the one piece of my past I’d guarded so fiercely. And with that knowledge came a trust I hadn’t anticipated.

I believed in him, believed he would stand by me to find her, that he wouldn’t wield her existence as a weapon against me the way Hunter had.

Fenrir’s honesty had been a stark contrast to the web of deceit I’d been entangled in before. He’d admitted what I already suspected: yes, in the beginning, when my every thought had been of escape, he might have used Selena to tether me to him.

But he’d never cloaked that truth in lies, never dressed it up to manipulate me. Unlike Hunter—that bastard—who had woven falsehoods into the fabric of my life from the moment I’d known him, Fenrir had laid his intentions bare.

But now, things had changed—they were different. He promised me a comfortable and safe life. And he fulfilled that promise through small acts, like the books he gifted me.

I no longer wanted to flee from Dăneşti, and he knew it. However, I wouldn’t live in peace until I found my sister. Fenrir wanted to see me satisfied, so I knew he’d be a good ally in this search.

I spotted him as soon as I reached the last step. His wet hair gleamed in the moonlight reflected through the enormous window. He was sitting on the edge of the sofa, his body leaning back in a relaxed position, holding a glass of whiskey.

He was barefoot, wearing only gray sweatpants. My eyes roamed over the ridges of his chiseled abs, and I licked my lips.

The mark of my fangs on his neck stirred something in my stomach—a pure satisfaction for my wolf. Our mate was marked, proudly displaying to whom he belonged.

Involuntarily, I touched the mark on my own neck, feeling a small sting of pain that brought pleasure.

He turned his face toward me, his blue eyes settling on me. The silvery tones danced around his irises. He usually looked like this when he was upset, worried, irritated, or all three.

"How are you feeling?" he murmured, running his tongue over his lips.

After nearly being killed, captured, and then fucked like never before? If the answer was “amazing,” would that sound too weird?

I cleared my throat.

"Good," I admitted, omitting a small part of the truth.

I felt somewhat... self-conscious around him after everything that had happened—after what we had done. It was as if we were two strangers sharing the same house.

I finished descending the stairs and walked around the sofa, stopping in front of him. The woody scent of his shampoo and soap drifted toward me. I bit my cheeks and began questioning my sanity.

Was drinking blood harmful? Because after everything that had happened, all I could think about was how much I wanted him to fuck me again. And I wasn’t even in heat.

"Are you hungry? Tired?" he asked, his eyes scanning my body and pausing on the mark on my neck. I noticed in them the same genuine satisfaction that mirrored my own.

"I'm hungry," I confessed, turning on my heels and heading to the kitchen. I had to keep my distance from him before I jumped into his lap. "I’ll cook something to eat. Do you want some?"

Alexandra mentioned something about a mating frenzy when I first arrived in Dăneşti. Could I be going through it again? After all, I had been marked by another male and then re-marked by Fenrir. That had to mean something.

I cleared my throat and blinked, trying to focus solely on the task and on him, for the moment.

"Yes, please."

He seemed tired, even exhausted, in a way I had never seen before. Fenrir was used to killing; he was always ready to fight. The wolves hadn’t even touched him—they weren’t strong enough. Even so, he acted as if he had no energy left, as if he had been drained somehow.

Had I drunk too much of his blood?

I frowned in confusion.

"I... uh..." I ran a hand through my hair, murmuring the words with a flushed face. He turned his eyes to me and waited. "Did I drink too much blood?"

Saying it out loud sounded even worse.

A crease appeared in the middle of his forehead.

"No, why?"

I shrugged and began moving around the kitchen, gathering everything I’d need to cook.

"It’s just that you seem tired," I whispered after a moment of silence.

He let out a dry laugh.

"You’re right. I do feel tired."

I turned my eyes away from the pans, dragging them toward him.

"Why?" I asked sincerely. "I didn’t think you were hurt during the fight. I didn’t feel anything."

But then again, I had been so weakened that feeling his pain might have been impossible.

"I wasn’t," he confirmed.

I was caught off guard when an involuntary sigh of relief slipped past my lips, a soft, fleeting sound that seemed to rise unbidden from somewhere deep within me.

It surprised me, that small release, as if my body had decided to shed a fragment of the tension I hadn’t even realized I was carrying.

The air felt lighter for a moment, and I let myself linger in that fleeting calm before turning my attention to the task at hand.

I moved to the stove, my hands working with a familiar rhythm as I tossed the ground meat into the sizzling pan. The faint hiss of fat meeting heat filled the kitchen.

I reached for the cutting board, the knife sliding through ripe tomatoes with a satisfying squelch, their tangy scent mingling with the sharp bite of onions as I diced them for the sauce. My fingers tugged at the cabbage leaves, peeling them away one by one with care, their crisp edges cool against my skin.

I was preparing his favorite dish, a quiet labor of gratitude for Fenrir—another way to say thank you for pulling me from the jaws of death once more.

The act of cooking felt like a tether, a way to anchor myself after everything we’d endured, and I poured my focus into it, letting the familiar motions steady my still-fragile nerves.

Across the room, Fenrir stood by the window, his broad frame silhouetted against the dimming light of the evening. His gaze was locked on the forest beyond, the sprawling expanse of trees stretching out like a dark, silent sea.

He seemed lost in it, his eyes fixed and unblinking, as though the shadows among the branches held answers he couldn’t quite grasp. The lines of his face were taut, his jaw set in a way that suggested he was wrestling with something heavy.

I watched him for a moment, the stillness of his posture contrasting with the restless energy I could almost feel radiating from him.

I knew I shouldn’t pry—his thoughts were his own, a private sanctum I had no right to breach. Yet curiosity gnawed at me, sharp and insistent, tugging at the edges of my restraint.

I couldn’t help myself. I closed my eyes briefly, drawing a slow breath as I reached for that invisible thread, the subtle, shimmering bond that wove us together.

It was instinctual, almost effortless, like following a whisper in the dark. I focused, letting my mind cling to it, tracing its delicate path until I brushed against the currents of his emotions.

What I found there hit me like a wave, raw and unfiltered: Anguish. Guilt. Confusion. Anger.