Chapter 105

Aurora's POV

The attack came at dawn, when the stronghold's security was transitioning between night and day shifts. Professional killers moved through corridors with lethal precision, their target unmistakably clear—me.

I woke to the sound of breaking glass as my window exploded inward. Dark-clad figures poured through the opening with military efficiency, silver blades glinting in early morning light.

Training kicked in before conscious thought. I rolled from my bed, grabbing the ceremonial dagger from my nightstand as the first assassin lunged toward me.

The blade bit deep into my shoulder as I twisted away, silver burning through my system like acid. But my counterattack found its mark, and the assassin staggered backward with my dagger buried between his ribs.

Kane appeared in my doorway like avenging fury, his own weapons drawn and his face a mask of lethal focus. Whatever emotional walls he'd built, my immediate danger shattered them completely.

He moved with fluid grace through the remaining attackers, each motion calculated for maximum efficiency. No wasted movement, no hesitation, just the deadly precision of someone trained to protect at any cost.

"Stay down," he ordered sharply, engaging two assassins simultaneously while covering my position.

But more attackers were pouring through the corridors, their coordination suggesting inside knowledge of the stronghold's layout and security protocols. This wasn't a random assault—it was a surgical strike planned by someone with intimate access to royal security.

Kane fought his way to my side, dispatching the last assassin in my room with brutal efficiency. His hands shook as he examined my wound, his professional composure cracking in the face of my injury.

"I can't keep watching you nearly die," he said quietly, his voice rough with suppressed emotion.

Despite the pain radiating from my shoulder, I saw through his walls to the man underneath. "Then stop pushing me away and start working with me."

Kane's eyes met mine for the first time since our arrival, and I saw everything he'd been hiding—fear, love, desperate protectiveness warring with his determination to maintain distance.

The attack's aftermath brought swift changes to my situation. The Alpha King summoned us both to his private study, his expression grim as he processed the implications.

"Professional killers with inside knowledge of our security protocols," he said without preamble. "Someone with access to classified information planned this assault."

Kane stood at attention beside my chair, close enough that I could feel the tension radiating from him. The attack had shattered his ability to maintain proper distance, his protective instincts overriding his emotional barriers.

"I'm assigning Kane as your official protector," the Alpha King announced. "His qualifications are unquestionable, and recent events have demonstrated the necessity."

Kane immediately protested, his discomfort obvious. "Perhaps someone else would be more appropriate, Your Majesty. My objectivity may be compromised."

"Objectivity is less important than competence," the Alpha King replied firmly. "You're the most qualified, and she trusts you."

Kane's response was bitter and revealing. "Trust might be overstating our current relationship."

The Alpha King's expression sharpened as he studied the tension between us. "Whatever personal complications exist will be subordinated to security requirements. The Luna's safety is paramount."

As we left the study, news arrived that devastated me completely. A messenger from the medical facility carried reports about my mother's condition—she was dying.

The healers had done everything possible, but her illness was progressing faster than anticipated. I might have days left with her, maybe hours.

Kane noticed my distress immediately, his protective walls momentarily forgotten. "What's wrong?"

The simple question, asked with genuine concern, nearly broke my composure. For the first time in days, he was speaking to me as Aurora rather than as an assignment.

Within hours, Kane had quietly arranged for the Alpha King's premier healers to consult on my mother's case. He'd also organized transportation to the medical facility and cleared my schedule without being asked.

When I discovered what he'd done, I confronted him about it. His response was typically bureaucratic, but I could see the care beneath his formal explanations.

"The Alpha King's resources should assist pack families during medical crises," he said stiffly, avoiding my eyes.

"You arranged all of this for me," I pressed. "Why?"

Kane's jaw tightened, his internal struggle visible despite his attempts to hide it. "Professional protocol requires ensuring the Luna's emotional stability during security threats."

The explanation was ridiculous, and we both knew it. Kane was taking care of me because he couldn't help himself, his protective instincts stronger than his emotional walls.

But even as he showed genuine care through his actions, he maintained rigid physical distance. He walked exactly three steps behind me in corridors, spoke only when necessary, and refused to acknowledge any personal connection between us.

"You can walk beside me," I said mockingly during one of our trips to the medical facility. "I'm not contagious."

Kane's response was inflexibly professional. "Proper positioning requires optimal surveillance angles."

The bureaucratic explanation for his distance was another wall between us, reducing our connection to tactical requirements rather than acknowledging the emotional truth underneath.

As my mother's condition worsened, Kane's careful distance became increasingly difficult to maintain. He found reasons to check on me more frequently, always with professional justifications that fooled no one.

"The Luna's emotional state requires monitoring during family crisis," he explained to other guards, his voice carefully neutral.

But I caught him watching me with obvious concern when he thought others weren't looking. His eyes followed my movements, tracked my emotional state, responded to my distress with protective instincts he couldn't quite suppress.

The medical facility's staff began commenting on his devotion, making observations that clearly made him uncomfortable.

"That young man hasn't left your side for days," one nurse mentioned casually. "Such dedication to duty."

Kane would deflect such comments with rigid professionalism, but his discomfort was obvious. He was struggling to maintain emotional distance while providing the kind of care that revealed his true feelings.

Late one evening, as I sat beside my mother's bed, Kane brought me food without being asked. He'd also arranged for comfortable seating and handled all the logistics of my extended stay.

"You need to eat," he said quietly, setting a tray beside me with careful precision.

The simple gesture of care nearly broke through my own emotional barriers. Kane was taking care of me despite his determination to maintain distance, his actions contradicting his words in the most revealing way possible.

As I picked at the food, Kane remained nearby—close enough to provide protection, far enough to maintain the illusion of professional distance. But his presence was comforting in ways that had nothing to do with security protocols.

"Thank you," I said softly, not looking at him. "For everything you've arranged."

Kane's response was stiff but telling. "The Alpha King's resources should be available during family emergencies."

Even his deflections revealed how much he cared. Kane was going to extraordinary lengths to help me while pretending it was all institutional procedure.

My mother stirred in her sleep, and I reached for her hand automatically. The gesture seemed to affect Kane deeply—I saw something flicker across his face before he quickly looked away.

"She's lucky to have you," he said quietly, his professional mask slipping just enough to reveal genuine emotion.

"She's dying because of choices I made," I replied bitterly. "If I hadn't investigated Giana, if I hadn't fought so hard—"

"She's dying because evil people hurt innocent victims," Kane interrupted firmly. "That's not your fault."

The conviction in his voice surprised me. Despite his emotional walls, Kane was defending me from my own guilt with passionate certainty.

We sat in comfortable silence for a while, both of us focused on my mother's breathing. For the first time since our arrival at the stronghold, the tension between us eased slightly.

But when a nurse entered to check on my mother, Kane immediately stepped back to professional distance, his mask sliding into place with practiced ease.

The pattern continued over the following days. Kane would show genuine care and concern when we were alone, then retreat behind professional barriers the moment others appeared.

It was exhausting for both of us—this constant dance between connection and distance, between the truth of our bond and the fiction of mere professional association.