Anabel.

I dipped the clean cloth into the bowl again, watching the water ripple faintly before I lifted it out. I wrung it slowly, twisting the fabric between my fingers until the excess water dripped back into the bowl in soft, steady drops. Then I pressed it carefully against the bruise forming along Noah’s shoulder.

The skin there was already darkening and swollen.

He didn’t flinch, not even a slight tightening of his jaw, not a sharp intake of breath. Nothing.

That was what annoyed me the most.

He just sat there quietly on the edge of the bed, his shirt discarded beside him, exposing the faint scrapes that marked his skin from the fall. Thin red lines traced across his arm and shoulder, some already drying, others still tender. His breathing was steady now, controlled, measured.

But I knew better.

I had seen him this morning.

And that image refused to leave my mind.

My brows knitted together into a deeper frown as I dabbed at another cut along his arm, more firmly this time than necessary.

Stubborn wolf.

Last night had been... calm.

Unexpectedly calm.

We had eaten together in his room. No arguments, no tension crackling between us. Just quiet conversation and shared food, the kind of simple exchange that didn’t require effort. For a brief moment, it had almost felt normal.

Almost easy.

When it was time to sleep, he had insisted on taking the ground while I stayed on the bed.

"I’m fine down here," he had said casually, spreading a thin blanket over the floor as if it were the most natural arrangement in the world.

Like he didn’t mind.

Like he didn’t care.

I hadn’t argued.

I told myself it didn’t matter where he slept. That I preferred the distance anyway. That it was better this way.

But I noticed.

I noticed the way he didn’t hesitate. The way he made it seem effortless.

And this morning, before the sun had fully risen, I woke to the faint sound of him shifting.

Restless.

Not the calm, steady breathing of someone deeply asleep. It was uneven. Strained.

I sat up slowly, the room still dim in the early light, and saw him sitting on the edge of the makeshift bedding. One hand was pressed firmly against his stomach.

He looked terrible.

Pale.

Not the usual faint tiredness.

His skin had been almost gray under the soft dawn light filtering through the window. The shadows beneath his eyes deeper than they had any right to be.

"Are you alright?" I had asked immediately, the question leaving me before I could mask the concern in my voice.

He had looked up at me and given me that same small smile. The one he always used when he didn’t want to worry anyone.

"I’m fine."

He wasn’t.

I could see it in the tightness around his mouth. In the way his fingers curled slightly against his stomach as if he were fighting off a wave of discomfort. In the way he swallowed hard before speaking, like even that simple action required effort.

He had closed his eyes briefly afterward, just for a second, like he was steadying himself, like the world had tilted and he needed to catch his balance.

"You shouldn’t ride today," I had told him firmly, folding my arms as if that would somehow reinforce my authority. "You look sick."

The memory replayed so clearly it felt like we were standing in that same early morning light again.

He had shaken his head immediately.

"It’s just my stomach."

Just.

As if that made it insignificant. As if the pallor of his skin and the tension in his posture were things I had imagined.

"You’re not fine," I insisted, stepping closer to him back then, searching his face for even a crack in his resolve. "You can sit this round out."

It wasn’t weakness to sit one round out. It wasn’t surrender. It was common sense.

But that was when I saw it, that flash in his eyes, It wasn’t anger, It wasn’t irritation, It was something far more unmovable.

Determination.

The kind that rooted itself deep and refused to budge.

"I cannot miss out on the first round." he had said quietly, solid and final. Like he had already decided long before I opened my mouth.

And that was when the jealousy crept in, slow, unwanted and bitter because I knew.

He wasn’t doing it for pride.

If it were pride, I would have understood. Pride was predictable. Pride was simple.

He wasn’t doing it for the pack either. Not entirely.

He was doing it for her.

Maria.

The name burned in my mind even now as I pressed ointment gently along the scrape near his collarbone. My fingers moved carefully, spreading the cool salve over irritated skin, but my thoughts were anything but calm.

And now here he was, sitting upright, skin marked, shoulder bruised, arm scraped raw from hitting the ground after falling off the horse, pretending nothing had happened. Pretending the fall was the only thing that needed attention.

My grip tightened slightly around the cloth as I pressed it to his shoulder again. I clenched my jaw slightly as I shifted to his other arm, applying the ointment in slow strokes. The scent of it lingered faintly in the air, sharp and medicinal.

"You should have listened," I muttered under my breath.

He let out a soft huff of breath that almost sounded like a quiet laugh.

"It wasn’t that bad."

I paused and shot him a look.

A flat one.

"You fell," I said evenly.

"I’ve fallen before," he replied calmly, like that erased the concern.

Like repetition made recklessness acceptable.

"That’s not the point."

My voice sharpened slightly despite myself. Because it wasn’t about whether he had fallen before. It wasn’t about whether he could handle pain.

It was about the fact that he had gone into that race already weakened.

Already pale.

Already unsteady.

And still chosen to ride.

I cleaned the last of the visible cuts, smoothing the cloth over his skin one final time before setting it aside. The bowl of water beside me had turned faintly pink, evidence of what I had just wiped away. When I was sure there was nothing else left to tend to, I sat back slightly on my heels and studied him.

Even now, his face still looked a little pale.

Not as bad as this morning, when the early light had drained him of all color and left him looking almost fragile.

But not right either.

There was still a faint dullness beneath his skin, a subtle tightness around his eyes that hadn’t been there days ago. His posture was upright, too upright, almost forced. Like he was holding himself together through sheer will.

He caught me staring.

Of course he did.

He tilted his head slightly, one brow lifting in quiet curiosity.

"What?" he asked.

The word was simple and neutral. As if he genuinely didn’t understand what I was seeing.

I hesitated for only a second.

The question sat heavy on my tongue before I finally let it out.

"Why don’t you just quit the competition?" I said.

The words didn’t come out sharp like I expected. They weren’t laced with anger, they were tired, worn down, more frustrated than pleading.

He didn’t respond to my question immediately, instead, he looked at me, his gaze steady, calm, searching, perhaps.

And then...He smiled.

That same calm, unreadable smile he always wore when he didn’t want to reveal what was going on inside his head.

No explanation, no argument, no attempt to justify himself, no reassurance meant to comfort me. Just a quiet curve of his lips, as if the answer was obvious and didn’t need to be spoken.

It irritated me more than if he had shouted at me. At least shouting would have been honest.

"Seriously, Noah," I pressed, my voice lowering, the frustration slipping through despite my effort to contain it. "You’re not well. You don’t owe anyone anything."

His gaze softened slightly at that.

There was something almost gentle in his expression now, something that made my chest tighten in ways I didn’t want to examine too closely.

"I’m fine, Anabel," he said gently.

The same two words from this morning, the same quiet denial, the same refusal to let me in.

I looked away first.

Because I knew he wouldn’t quit.

I knew it with the kind of certainty that left no room for argument. Even if his stomach twisted again tomorrow. Even if his legs felt weak. Even if his vision blurred for a second too long.

He would still show up and that made me angry, not because he was weak, but because he wasn’t.

Because I knew exactly who he was trying to be strong for.

And it wasn’t me.

I stood up, brushing my hands together before gathering the ointment and cloth. I packed them away carefully, my movements deliberate, quieter than necessary.

He remained seated on the edge of the bed, silent as ever, watching, maybe. Or simply waiting for the moment to pass.

I turned my back to him, I couldn’t decide which hurt more...the sight of his injuries.....Or the reason behind them.