The Alpha’s Queen

Isabelle stared at the unmoving form lying on the rusty earth before her. It was obvious that he was human, but motionless at that. With slight apprehension and caution, she glanced around for any sign of who might have brought him there or who was responsible for his near-death state. She saw no footprints, nor did the air carry the scent of any other being, only the stranger’s stench of blood mixed with a strong masculine smell.

Using both hands, she shifted him onto his back, where a huge gash bled steadily from somewhere around his chest through his shirt. Another wound added to the stench of blood from his forehead, and a thin scar marred his striking features, as though he had been deliberately sliced from a point a few inches from his eye down to the side of his lips. The paleness of his skin jolted her out of her careful examination and forced her to act quickly.

His condition clearly needed immediate attention, not mere observation. Isabelle pressed her ear to his chest to check for a heartbeat while her fingers hovered beneath his nose to feel for breath. His pulse was faint, slowly drifting from this world to the unknown, and Isabelle knew at that moment that she had no choice but to help the stranger.

In haste, she tore off the sleeves of her dress to stop the blood that continued to flow from his body onto the dark, soiled earth. With sheer determination and a strength she never knew she possessed, she dragged him to the almost dilapidated cottage she had taken shelter in for the past several days. With a groan, she laid him near the hearth she had lit before going out in search of food, before she came across the stranger left for dead. Water was already boiling over the fire, so she hastily used the clean water to cleanse his wounds and assess their severity and depth.

His lips had lost all color, and the rest of his body seemed to be following. His physique suggested a man accustomed to hard labor, and the tan on his skin made it evident that he worked outdoors. A sense of strength and power emanated from him, which made Isabelle wonder how such an obviously strong man had been brought so close to death.

Putting aside her curiosity, she parted the shirt clinging to his skin because of the blood he had lost and shivered at the sharp sting of awareness she felt when her fingers brushed over his bare chest. Her slim, milky-white hand moved to his forehead to check his temperature, and she found him burning with enough heat to overwhelm an average man. With a hiss and furrowed brows, she set to work cleaning him as best as she could.

Isabelle snatched up her healing pouch from the table and summoned all her courage to thoroughly cleanse the wounds, knowing that if left untreated they would become infected and could cost such an intriguing man his life. She stitched the wound on his chest and, only after making sure she had left no cause for infection, applied poultice to the scar on his face as well as healing herbs mashed and spread over the wound on his forehead.

To make sure everything was covered, Isabelle removed the rest of his garments with unease and trembling fingers. She fumbled with the ties of his trousers and, with averted eyes, helped him out of them. Her fingers shook as she touched his bare thighs during her inspection before she removed his boots.

Thankfully, there were no wounds on the lower part of his body.

She left him in his knickers before collecting the other garments to wash so that he would have clean clothes when he awoke.

A shiver ran down her spine at the cold she felt when she stepped outside. Isabelle stopped by the door in a trance.

“If I’m feeling cold with my clothes on, I wonder how he feels,” she said aloud to herself before rushing back inside.

The stranger was exactly as she had left him. With a silent prayer to God for his recovery, she draped her only cloak over his body, leaving his chest exposed.

With another prayer for safety, she hurried out of the house to the nearby stream. She washed what remained of his torn shirt and trousers, cleaned his boots, then returned to the cottage to dry them by the fire. She held the garments near the hearth until each side dried.

A yawn escaped her, brought on by the fatigue and hunger deep in her bones. It was dangerous to leave the stranger alone in such a defenseless state, especially because the reason he had been left for dead near her home was still unknown to her, but it was equally dangerous to spend the night without eating anything.

Her stomach grumbled in protest, making her move impulsively toward the door. Isabelle turned and let her gaze fall on the stranger before walking out without a backward glance.

Several thoughts flitted in and out of her head as she walked deeper into the woods, where it was darker and the trees bowed to the whistle of the wind, for darkness had already claimed the world. Subconsciously, she held her jacket tighter, burrowing her hands deeper into its pockets.

The hunt for food was a success, as she managed to catch a few rabbits as well as fish from the stream.

Isabelle wasted no time returning to her cottage. Her gaze flew to the stranger, who was lying as still as a statue where she had left him on the floor. Only the rise and fall of his chest proved that his heart still beat and blood still flowed through his veins. She dropped to her knees before him and pressed a pale palm to his forehead, checking his temperature. A sigh slipped past her lips when she found it slightly cooler than it had been before she left the cottage.

After cooling him off, she skinned the rabbits, made tea from fresh mint leaves and lemongrass, then set the meat to cook while preserving the fish for another day. It did not take long for her to eat until her stomach was full and store the rest for the stranger in case he awoke soon, and for the days ahead, since they had enough to last for a while.

By then, the sky had turned an angry shade of blue. Cold air whooshed through the broken windows, pushing aside the curtains as though they did not exist. Isabelle shivered as the breeze settled into her bones. She eyed the man on the carpeted floor, then looked at the bed in the farthest corner of the room.

Better to be covered than lie on the soft mattress, Isabelle thought.

“He’s unconscious. He won’t know,” she whispered to herself before moving closer to him. “What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

Her soft voice faded into the air before she slid under the cloak.

A shiver of awareness rushed from her head to the tips of her toes at the feel of his masculine warmth near her. They were not even touching beneath the cloak, yet it still felt a hundred degrees warmer. With a sigh, she settled beside him, close enough that her hand brushed his, and drifted off to sleep.

It was the most peaceful rest she had had in days, ever since she began living in the cottage.

Isabelle awoke the next morning with a start. In her sleep, she had plastered herself against his side, and the feverish heat emanating from him scorched her pale skin. With trembling fingers, she hurried to build up the fire to warm the room before cooling his heated skin with a clean sponge.

The whole day passed without so much as a twitch from him, and so did the next. By then, Isabelle had begun to fear the outcome of his fever because the last time she had seen a man lying so lifeless on the floor, he had not survived for long. The fever had overwhelmed him and taken his soul.

Isabelle was not one to give up easily, especially when she felt such a strong connection to the wounded man. Deep in her heart, she knew he was a survivor. A man this strong and masculine could not succumb to heat alone. He seemed more fit to die after conquering the world, not alone in the woods with no one to give him a proper burial.

On the fourth day, as Isabelle slept snuggled against him beneath the cloak, his eyes fluttered open, unbeknownst to her. She moaned softly in her sleep and shifted closer unconsciously. The movement caught his attention, but weakness and the dryness of his throat prevented him from speaking or moving much at all. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. After several attempts, he gave up and surrendered once more to the sleep dragging him under, much to his annoyance.

Over the next two days, he slipped in and out of consciousness as a fever nearly as fierce as before threatened his life again. Isabelle did all she could. She cleansed his wounds thoroughly, examined his stitches, and remained by his side day and night. Every groan of pain tore at her heart. The spasms that shook his body, the convulsions that wrecked his strength, and the way his eyes opened lifelessly in the throes of fever and pain did not escape her. She witnessed him at his weakest.

She held his hand through it all. The warmth of their palms touching gave her hope. It made her even more aware that this man was human and would, hopefully, soon recover from the edge of death.

It was only when his fever broke and a more acceptable warmth settled in his body that she moved from his side. She let go of his hand and allowed the lone tear pleading for release to slip down her cheek to her chin. Without wiping it away, she stared at the restless man who, a day earlier, had nearly surrendered to death.

Once, when his eyes fluttered open in the middle of his worst fever, his gaze, clouded and unfocused, locked onto hers and his lips moved. She caught the word “angel” as he mouthed it before his eyes closed again.

That night, as she checked his stitches to see if they were ready to come out, his eyes flew open and settled on hers as though in a daze. When the haze cleared, Isabelle quickly offered him water from a tumbler to wet his dry throat and held his head on her lap for support.

He drank the water as though it were the last he would ever be given, with desperate vigor, and only when the tumbler was empty did he pull his gaze from hers. She shifted slightly to lower his head back onto the makeshift pillow supporting him on the floor, but stopped when his hand closed around her wrist.

His grip was strong as he asked, “Who are you?”