The billionaire's omega wolf bride Chapter 23: Denial

Chapter 23

(Lenora POV)

I swear to the goddess, if I ever see Frederick again, I’m going to finish what I started.

I should’ve broken more than his ribs. Should’ve clawed that smug, snake-eyed face until he begged for rcy. Should’ve made sure he rembered what it ant to touch my mate.

But I didn’t.

Because Caron was already on the ground—broken, bleeding—and I couldn’t waste another second.

Now here we are. A week later.

And he still hasn’t healed.

I sit on the edge of the bed, the old mattress creaking under my weight, and wring out the cloth in the basin beside . It’s warm and slls faintly of lavender, one of the few herbs that doesn’t irritate wolf senses.

I gently wipe the sweat off Caron’s forehead. His skin is clammy. His brows furrow in his sleep, like he’s caught sowhere between pain and dreams.

"This isn’t normal," I murmur, voice barely above a whisper.

Wolve heal broken bones in one or two days, after entering hibernation.But Caron—he’s still stuck in bed. Bones nding slower than expected, bruises lingering.

I brush a strand of hair from his face and sigh, fingers lingering against his temple.

"Why aren’t you healing, sweetheart?" I whisper.

I hate seeing him like this. Caron—stoic, sharp-tongued, infuriatingly calm—isn’t supposed to look this fragile. It makes sothing twist painfully in my chest.

Maybe it’s the bond.

Maybe... it’s because he hasn’t accepted it yet. Not fully. His body doesn’t know what to do with the pull. Not resisting. Not embracing. Stuck sowhere in the middle. No wonder he’s not recovering the way he should.

***

(Caron POV)

I open my eyes slowly, the light in the room dim and soft, filtered through old curtains that sll faintly of herbs and woodsmoke. My body aches, every bone heavy like I’ve been flattened by a truck. Which, given my last mory, isn’t far off.

Pain hums quietly beneath the surface, but it’s bearable.

What isn’t bearable is the warmth wrapped around my hand.

Lenora.

She’s asleep—or at least I think she is. Her forehead rests against the edge of the mattress, her fingers curled tightly around mine like I’m her anchor in a storm.

As if sensing the shift in , her eyes flutter open.

And for a mont, she just stares.

The relief that floods her expression is so raw it stuns . Her storm-gray eyes go wide, wet with sothing she doesn’t bother to hide. Her lips part, like she can’t quite believe I’m awake.

Then she moves.

Suddenly, without hesitation, she launches forward and wraps her arms around , burying herself against my chest.

I tense, instinctively bracing for impact, but I don’t push her away.

I don’t want to.

Instead, I raise my arms slowly—hesitantly—and give her a couple of stiff, unsure pats on the back.

She’s warm.

Soft.

The contact soothes sothing deep in , sothing primal and unspoken that’s been clawing at the inside of my chest since the first night I t her.

I don’t na it.

I won’t.

But I feel it.

Her hair brushes my chin, and I take in the subtle scent of pine and vanilla, sothing wild and grounding all at once. My eyes drift shut for a second, and for a mont... I don’t feel broken. I don’t feel lost.

I just feel her.

When she finally pulls back, she wipes her face quickly like she didn’t just fall apart on top of . Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes red—but she’s smiling, and it’s that kind of smile that makes feel like maybe I matter.

"You’re awake," she whispers like a prayer.

"Yeah," I croak, voice rough. "Looks like it."

"You’ve been out for a week." Her voice trembles, and I realize just how scared she must’ve been.

"A week?" I blink.

"Yeah," she says softly, tucking her hair behind her ear. "It normally shouldn’t take that long to heal a couple of broken bones."

That sentence... stops .

What?

My brows furrow, and I look down at myself—at my hands, at my legs. I flex my fingers, shift my feet. I rotate my shoulders, testing. Sore, sure. But nothing feels broken. Nothing even feels fractured.

I’m... healed.

Too fast.

Too clean.

No.

"What?" I echo, sharper now.

I sit up too quickly and imdiately regret it as my head spins, but I push through it, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed.

Lenora stands quickly. "Caron, slow down—"

But I’m already on my feet.

My bare toes press into the wooden floorboards. My muscles tense, stretch. Everything works. There’s no bandage, no cast, not even a bruise.

I don’t know whether to be impressed or horrified.

"That’s insane," I mutter, running a hand over my face.

"There’s no way I should be walking right now."

"You’re still adjusting," Lenora says gently, watching carefully. "Your wolf is just... waking up."

I freeze. "Don’t say that."

"Caron—"

"No." I look at her, really look at her. "I’m not a wolf. You keep saying that but I’m not—this isn’t—I didn’t grow up with any of this!"

Lenora’s expression doesn’t change. If anything, it softens. Like she expected this. Like she understands the panic bubbling under my skin better than I do.

"I know it’s a lot," she says.

I let out a laugh. A dry, humorless thing. "A lot? I was attacked in the woods. Knocked unconscious. Nearly killed. Healed in a week. And now you’re telling that’s just what wolves do?"

Her lips press into a line, but she doesn’t argue.

Because what can she say?

I pace. I shouldn’t pace—my body is still catching up—but I can’t sit still. My heart’s racing.

"Do you know how crazy this sounds?" I snap, motioning between the two of us. "This—healing. Magic forests. Wolves. Mates."

"God, what am I supposed to do with this? How am I supposed to go back to my life—?"

"You don’t have to decide that right now," she cuts in, quiet but steady. "You just woke up. Your body—your wolf—has been through a lot."

"I don’t have a wolf!" I snap, louder than I an to.

The silence that follows is heavy.

\n(o)v.e\l

"I’ll make you so food, I’m sure you’re starving." She says and walks out.