Chapter 8

Night fell over the estate, bringing a heavy, suffocating silence. Ella dismissed all the servants, claiming their breathing annoyed her, and sent them to the outer quarters.

Once the halls were empty, she summoned Kevan.

"Go to the dungeon," she ordered, keeping her voice sharp. "Drag Cordaro up to the second-floor guest room. Do not let anyone see you."

Kevan didn't ask questions. He bowed and left.

Twenty minutes later, Kevan staggered into the lavish guest room, carrying Cordaro's massive, unconscious weight over his shoulder. He dumped the wolf beastman onto the center of the massive, velvet-covered bed.

The room was a stark contrast to the dungeon. A warm fire crackled in the hearth, casting a soft orange glow over the thick carpets and silk drapes.

"Get out," Ella snapped at Kevan. "And lock the door behind you."

Kevan hesitated for a fraction of a second, his eyes darting to Cordaro, before he bowed and exited. The heavy lock clicked shut.

Ella was finally alone.

She let out a long, shuddering breath. Her shoulders slumped, the arrogant posture draining out of her body. She walked over to the bed and looked down at Cordaro.

The blue serum had done its job perfectly. His breathing was deep and rhythmic. The horrific wounds on his chest were sealed under thick, healthy scabs. The fever had completely broken.

But he was still covered in dried blood, dungeon grime, and sweat. His thick fur was matted and stiff.

As a veterinarian, Ella had a pathological need to keep her patients clean. She couldn't stand seeing an animal-or a beastman-in such a filthy state. It violated every professional instinct she had.

She walked into the adjoining washroom and filled a silver basin with warm water. She grabbed a stack of soft, clean cotton towels.

Returning to the bed, she sat on the edge. She dipped a towel into the warm water, wrung it out, and gently began to wipe the grime from Cordaro's face.

Her movements were incredibly soft, practiced, and precise. She wiped away the dried blood from his jawline, avoiding the sensitive areas around his eyes.

The warmth of the water and the gentle friction seeped into Cordaro's subconscious.

He was trapped in a dark, painful limbo between sleep and waking. But suddenly, the pain began to recede. He felt a soft, warm hand pressing a damp cloth to his forehead.

The hand moved to his ears. The fingers were skilled, pressing exactly into the pressure points at the base of his skull, releasing the deep, coiled tension in his muscles.

It was a touch so tender, so completely devoid of malice, that Cordaro's fever-addled brain thought he was dreaming of his late mother.

A tiny, fragile whimper-a sound he hadn't made since he was a pup-escaped his lips.

Hearing that sound, Ella's heart melted completely. She forgot where she was. She forgot she was playing a tyrant.

She reached out and gently stroked the soft fur of his gray wolf ears. She leaned in close, her lips brushing against the shell of his ear.

"You're going to be okay," she whispered in that same strange, soft, otherworldly cadence.

Those two foreign words, spoken in a tone of pure, unadulterated kindness, acted like a lightning strike in Cordaro's brain.

His consciousness violently snapped awake.

That wasn't his mother. And it absolutely, unequivocally was not the sadistic Ella Ortiz. The woman who tortured him didn't know how to be gentle. She didn't speak whatever strange, melodic language that was.

Cordaro fought the heavy lethargy in his limbs. He forced his eyes to open, just a fraction of an inch.

Through the narrow slit of his eyelashes, illuminated by the flickering firelight, he saw her face.

Ella was leaning over him. Her eyes weren't filled with the usual manic cruelty. They were soft, focused, and brimming with a pure, clinical empathy.

Just as his vision began to clear entirely, Ella noticed the slight change in his breathing pattern.

Panic spiked in her chest. He's waking up.

She jerked backward, her heart leaping into her throat. In her haste, the damp towel slipped from her hand and landed squarely over Cordaro's eyes, blinding him again.

Ella scrambled off the bed, putting five feet of distance between them. She mentally screamed for the System, ready to buy a stun gun if he attacked her.

Cordaro didn't move. He lay perfectly still under the towel.

He couldn't see her, but he could smell her. The sharp, metallic scent of the dungeon was gone. Instead, the air was filled with Ella's unique scent-a cold, crisp fragrance like winter pine.

His mind raced, processing the impossible data. The tyrant had moved him to a warm bed. She was cleaning him. She had touched him with a tenderness that made his soul ache.

Who is this woman? Cordaro thought, his heart pounding against his ribs. Because she is not my Master.

Before Cordaro could pull the towel off his face, a violent, frantic pounding echoed from the hallway.

"Master!" Daulton's voice screamed through the thick oak door, raw with panic. "Open the door! What are you doing to him? !"