Rejected By My Mate; Claimed By Lycan Quadruplets Chapter 183

Atlas POV

I leaned against the wall in the quiet hallway, a box of food in my hands. The corridors of the estate were almost empty now, dimly lit, the scent of herbs and faint candle smoke drifting in the air. Dinner had been long over, and while most of the others were probably asleep, I knew Lisa hadn’t touched her plate. I’d noticed it earlier. She’d left the dining room without a word, slipping away before anyone could stop her.

I don’t know why I cared enough to grab a plate for her, carefully packing food into a small box as if I were her personal servant. Maybe because it bothered me—seeing her skip meals, seeing her walk around carrying so much weight on her shoulders as if eating was a luxury she didn’t deserve.

My stomach twisted. Or maybe because it was the least I could do after the way I’d hurt her. After everything.

I heard the faint sound of footsteps approaching before I saw her. My head snapped up and my chest tightened immediately. Lisa.

She was coming down the hallway slowly, too slowly, like every step took effort. The moment she came into view, I realized why. She was limping, dragging her right leg just a little with every step.

I straightened instantly, my voice rough when it left my throat.

“Lisa… what the hell happened to your leg?”

Her eyes flicked up, meeting mine briefly before darting away again, as though she wasn’t in the mood for conversation. Her hair was a little messy, strands falling around her face, and she looked exhausted.

“It’s nothing,” she muttered, waving her hand dismissively. “Just twisted my ankle earlier. It’ll be fine.”

“Twisted?” I repeated, the word burning on my tongue. “That doesn’t look like just twisted. You’re limping.”

She stopped a few feet from me, folding her arms defensively. “I said I’m fine. You don’t need to hover.”

The sharpness in her tone cut, but I didn’t back down. My gaze dropped to her ankle, swelling just slightly, her shoe sitting awkwardly on her foot. Anger flared in me—not at her, but at myself for not noticing sooner, for not being there when she hurt herself.

“Lisa, you can barely walk properly. Don’t tell me it’s fine.”

She sighed, shaking her head, but I stepped forward before she could protest further. Balancing the box of food carefully in one hand, I reached out with the other, steadying her by the elbow.

“Sit,” I said firmly, nodding to the bench against the wall. “Before you make it worse.”

Her brows pulled together. “Atlas, I said I—”

“Lisa.” My voice came out lower, softer this time, almost pleading. “Please. Just sit.”

Something in my tone must have gotten through, because she let out a tired breath and finally lowered herself onto the bench. She winced slightly as her weight shifted, and my jaw clenched at the sight.

I crouched down in front of her, setting the food box beside me. Carefully, I reached for her ankle.

“Can I?” I asked, my hand hovering just above her foot.

She hesitated, watching me closely, but after a moment, she nodded.

Slowly, I slid her shoe off, trying not to hurt her. The swelling was obvious now, the skin a little red. I frowned, guilt punching me in the gut.

“You should’ve said something earlier,” I murmured, lightly pressing around the joint, checking for anything worse. “You could’ve torn a ligament walking around like this.”

“I didn’t want to bother anyone,” she muttered, her voice quiet.

“Bother?” I looked up at her, heat rushing into my chest. “Lisa, you’re not a bother. Don’t you get that? You—damn it, you matter more than you think.”

Her lips parted slightly, like she wanted to say something back, but no words came out. She just stared at me, her eyes softer now, conflicted.

I exhaled and pulled my hands back a little, giving her space. “Hold still. Let me wrap it.”

I tore a strip from the cloth I’d stuffed into my pocket earlier—I always carried spare fabric, habit from years of patching myself up—and carefully bound her ankle. She hissed once but didn’t pull away, watching me with an expression I couldn’t read.

When I was done, I leaned back, resting my hands on my knees. “There. Not perfect, but it’ll hold until Mira checks it.”

Silence stretched between us for a few moments, heavy but not entirely uncomfortable. I reached for the food box, flipping it open.

“You skipped dinner,” I said quietly, not looking at her yet. “So… I brought you this.”

Her brows lifted. “You…?”

“Don’t sound so surprised,” I muttered, a half-smile tugging at my mouth. “I can be thoughtful when I want to.”

She gave a small laugh—barely there, but it was enough to make my chest ache in the best way.

“I’m not really hungry,” she said after a moment.

I grabbed the fork anyway, spearing a piece of roasted chicken, and held it out in front of her. “Tough. Eat.”

She blinked at me, her lips pressing together. “Atlas, I can feed myself.”

“Yeah, I know. But right now, you’re gonna let me. Call it penance.”

“Penance?” Her tone was dry, skeptical.

“For being a world-class idiot,” I said, forcing a crooked grin. “For hurting you. For all the stupid things I’ve said and done. So humor me, Lisa. Let me feed you at least once without biting my head off.”

Her eyes searched mine, lingering there for a long moment. Then, slowly, she opened her mouth, and I slipped the fork between her lips.

Watching her chew, swallow, was strangely intimate—more than I’d expected. I fed her another bite, then another, falling into a quiet rhythm. She didn’t protest again, though I could see the faint blush rising on her cheeks.

After a while, I chuckled softly. “You know, if anyone walks by right now, they’re gonna think we’re on some awkward first date.”

Her lips twitched into a reluctant smile. “And you’d be okay with that?”

I leaned back slightly, tilting my head. “Honestly? Yeah. I would.”

That made her look away quickly, her cheeks deepening in color. I set the fork down, closing the food box, and leaned forward, elbows on my knees.

“Lisa,” I said, my voice lower now, more serious.

She glanced back at me.

“I’m sorry,” I said simply. The words felt heavy, but right. “I’m sorry for hurting you. For lying. For making you feel like you couldn’t trust me. I know I can’t erase what I did, but I need you to know—I regret it. Every damn bit of it.”

Her expression flickered, pain and uncertainty written there. “Atlas…”

“I should’ve been better,” I pressed on, the words tumbling out now. “I should’ve treated you better. Instead, I pushed, I teased, I hid behind my stupid walls, and I ended up cutting you deeper than I ever meant to. And the truth is, I hate myself for it.”

Her eyes softened, though she tried to hide it.

“I’m not asking you to forgive me overnight,” I continued. “But I am asking for a chance to prove I can do better. That I *will* do better.”

Silence fell again, thick and heavy. I searched her face, desperate for some sign, some flicker that she understood.

Finally, she let out a quiet breath. “You really mean that?”

“With everything I have,” I said firmly.

She looked down at her hands, twisting them in her lap. “You hurt me, Atlas. You made me feel like I was just some game to you.”

My chest clenched. “I know. And I’ll spend as long as it takes proving you’re not. You’re not a game, Lisa. You never were.”

Her eyes lifted again, meeting mine. For a heartbeat, the world felt still, like nothing else existed but the two of us in that hallway.

To break the tension, I cracked a small smile. “Besides, who else is gonna put up with my terrible jokes?”

She rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth curved up faintly. “They are terrible.”

“See? Best audience I’ve got.”

I leaned back against the wall, running a hand through my hair. “So… friends again? Or at least… working toward it?”

Her gaze lingered on me for a long time before she finally nodded. “Maybe. But you’ll have to earn it.”

A grin tugged at my lips. “Fair enough. I’ll start by making sure you don’t skip meals again.”

She laughed softly, shaking her head. “Bossy.”

“Only with you,” I shot back.

We fell into a comfortable quiet then, the air between us lighter than before. For the first time in a long while, I felt like maybe—just maybe—we weren’t completely broken.

And I wasn’t about to waste the chance to make things right.