His Luna, His Enemy, His Doctor

I have faced men with knives, men with guns, men delirious with pain and desperation.

None of them have ever made my apartment feel this small.

He stands just inside the door as if the space belongs to him, broad shoulders nearly brushing the frame. The corridor light behind him fades when the door shuts completely, leaving only the muted daylight slipping through my curtains. It should be enough to see by.

Instead, all I can see clearly are his eyes.

Gold. Steady. Assessing.

My pulse is too loud in my ears. I force myself to straighten, to anchor my voice in something familiar.

"You broke into my home," I say, each word deliberate. "That's illegal."

A faint breath leaves him, almost like amusement, though nothing about his expression is light. "Your lock was simple."

"That doesn't make it acceptable."

He tilts his head slightly, studying me in a way that makes my skin prickle. It is not the look of a man admiring a woman. It is the look of a predator identifying something essential.

"I didn't come here to argue about doors," he says.

His voice is lower than I remember from the hospital, less strained now that he is not bleeding out on my table. It vibrates faintly in the air between us, as if sound itself bends around him.

I take a step back, putting the coffee table between us without making it obvious. "Then explain," I say. "Start with what you are and why you were healing in my trauma bay like something out of a bad science fiction film."

He doesn't answer immediately. Instead, he inhales slowly, eyes narrowing just a fraction.

"You smell different here," he murmurs.

My fingers tighten against the edge of the table. "That's not an explanation."

"You smell like antiseptic and steel at the hospital," he continues, as if I haven't spoken. "Here, you smell like yourself."

Heat creeps up my neck despite the tension. "You don't get to comment on how I smell."

A flicker of something dark passes through his gaze. "I get to do more than that."

The memory of his hand around my wrist flashes through my mind, along with the heat that followed. I hate that my body remembers it so vividly.

"You called me yours," I say, forcing the conversation back to something concrete. "In my operating room. In front of my staff. I don't belong to anyone."

His jaw tightens at that. He takes a slow step forward, and I have to resist the instinct to retreat further. The air between us feels charged, like the second before lightning strikes.

"You are my mate," he says, and the certainty in his voice is infuriating. "That is not ownership. It is bond."

"I didn't sign up for any bond," I snap. "And I don't believe in... whatever this is."

His gaze hardens. "You don't believe because you were never told."

"Told what?"

"That you are not human."

The words land heavily in the room. For a moment, all I can hear is the distant hum of traffic outside and the uneven rhythm of my own breathing.

"That's absurd," I say, but my voice lacks its usual clinical confidence. "I was born in a hospital. I have a birth certificate. I've had every vaccine known to man. I bleed like everyone else."

"You bleed," he agrees quietly. "But not like everyone else."

A sharp ache pulses in my chest again, right where it did earlier. I press my palm against it instinctively.

His eyes track the movement. "You feel it," he says.

"Feel what?" I demand.

"The pull."

I don't want to admit it, but denying it outright would be a lie so obvious even I wouldn't believe it. Ever since he touched me, there has been something inside me that feels... awake. Restless. As if a part of my body that had been sleeping for years suddenly remembered how to breathe.

"That doesn't mean I'm not human," I say instead. "It means I had a stressful night."

He moves again, closing the distance until the coffee table is the only barrier between us. Even with it there, I'm acutely aware of how much larger he is than me. Taller by at least a head. Broader. Stronger.

"And the wounds?" he asks. "You saw them."

I swallow. "I saw something I can't explain. That doesn't mean I accept your version of reality."

His lips curve faintly, but there's no warmth in it. "You think I am insane."

"I think you were injured and under extreme physiological stress," I say. "Hallucinations aren't uncommon in trauma patients."

"And you?" he asks. "Were you hallucinating when you cut me and watched the wound close?"

My throat goes dry.

"You shouldn't know about that," I say slowly.

His gaze flickers, just for a moment, as if he's replaying the memory. "I was not as unconscious as you believed."

Of course he wasn't.

A chill slides down my spine.

"You're avoiding the question," I say, forcing steadiness back into my tone. "What are you?"

He holds my gaze for several long seconds, as if weighing how much to reveal.

"I am Alpha of the Nightfall Pack," he says at last.

The word Alpha echoes in my mind, tied to the man in black who used it in the hospital.

"Pack?" I repeat. "As in... dogs?"

His eyes flash, and something sharp flickers across his expression. "As in wolves."

The air seems to thin.

"You expect me to believe you're a wolf," I say carefully. "That you heal from mortal wounds and break into apartments because you're some kind of... supernatural pack leader?"

"I do not expect belief," he replies. "I expect instinct."

My laugh is short and humorless. "My instincts tell me to call the police."

"And tell them what?" he asks calmly. "That a man with golden eyes claimed you as his mate and healed on your operating table?"

I open my mouth, then close it again. The image of officers standing in this room, trying to handcuff him, feels absurdly fragile.

He steps around the coffee table in one smooth movement before I can react. I step back quickly, my spine brushing the edge of the kitchen counter. He doesn't touch me this time, but he's close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body.

"You are not safe," he says quietly.

"From you?"

"From what will come for you now that you touched me."

My pulse stutters. "You're threatening me."

"I am warning you."

His gaze softens by a fraction, and that shift unsettles me more than the intensity did.

"The moment you placed your hands on me," he continues, "the bond recognized you."

"I don't want any bond."

"That does not change what you are."

I search his face for signs of delusion, of instability. But what I see there is not madness. It is conviction. And beneath it, something else-something almost like fear.

"What am I, then?" I ask before I can stop myself.

He hesitates.

For the first time since he entered my apartment, he looks uncertain.

"You are Luna-born," he says slowly. "Royal blood."

The phrase means nothing to me, yet it lands in my chest like it does.

"That's ridiculous," I say, though the denial feels weaker now.

"Your wolf was sealed," he continues. "Hidden."

"My wolf," I repeat, and a strange tremor runs through my hands.

"Yes."

The low growl I heard earlier hums faintly in the back of my mind, as if in response to the word.

I press my palms flat against the counter to steady myself. "I don't have a wolf."

His gaze drops briefly to my hands, then rises back to my face. "You do. You simply have not met her."

A laugh escapes me, brittle and strained. "You need psychiatric evaluation."

"If that comforts you, believe it," he says. "But when they come for you, remember that I offered protection."

"Who is they?" I demand.

His expression darkens. "Those who would use your blood."

The room seems to tilt again.

"You think I'm part of some supernatural power struggle," I say slowly. "That people are going to... what? Kidnap me? For my blood?"

"It has happened before."

The seriousness in his voice chills me more than the claim itself.

"Why?" I whisper, despite myself.

"Because your bloodline commands wolves," he says. "Even Alphas."

I stare at him.

"That's impossible."

"It is why you were hidden," he replies.

"Hidden by who?"

His silence stretches too long.

A terrible thought begins to form at the edge of my mind. "You know something about my family," I say.

His jaw tightens. "I know enough."

"Enough to break into my apartment and tell me I'm not human?"

"Enough to know you are in danger."

Anger flares, sharp and necessary. "You don't get to decide that for me. You don't get to decide anything about me."

His eyes darken again, and this time the intensity is edged with something possessive and raw.

"You are already involved," he says. "Whether you accept it or not."

A sudden crash echoes from somewhere outside my apartment, loud enough to make me flinch. We both turn toward the door at the same time.

He goes completely still.

Not startled.

Alert.

Every line of his body changes, shifting from confrontation to readiness.

"What was that?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

He inhales sharply, nostrils flaring as they did in the hospital.

"They found you faster than I expected," he murmurs.

My stomach drops. "Found me?"

A heavy thud hits the hallway outside my door, followed by the unmistakable sound of something-or someone-being thrown against the wall.

My heart slams in my chest.

"You brought this here," I accuse, backing away from the door.

"They would have come regardless," he replies, eyes fixed on the entrance.

The handle rattles violently.

I stumble back another step.

"This isn't real," I whisper.

He looks at me then, and for the first time, there is no dominance in his gaze. Only urgency.

"Stay behind me," he says.

The lock splinters.

The door bursts inward.

And the first thing I see through the shattered wood is a pair of glowing red eyes staring straight at me.