Chapter 106

Aurora's POV

Three days into my mother's crisis, I caught Kane arranging yet another consultation with medical specialists. This time he was bringing in experts from allied territories—resources that should have required formal approval through multiple channels.

The scope of his efforts was extraordinary. I'd overheard him on three separate calls that morning, speaking with healers I'd only heard mentioned in whispers. Names that commanded respect across all territories.

"You arranged all of this," I said, cornering him in the medical facility's consultation room. The space was cramped, forcing us closer together than he'd allowed in days. "Don't hide behind bureaucratic explanations."

Kane stood with his hands clasped behind his back, military posture intact despite the obvious tension in his shoulders. A slight tremor in his fingers betrayed the emotional state he was trying so hard to conceal.

"The Alpha King's resources should assist pack families during crises," he said, his voice carefully modulated but lacking its usual conviction.

"Stop lying to both of us." I stepped closer, close enough to see the way his jaw clenched when I invaded his carefully maintained personal space. "You're doing this because you care about me."

The consultation room's fluorescent lights cast harsh shadows across his face, highlighting the exhaustion he'd been hiding. Dark circles under his eyes suggested he'd been sleeping as poorly as I had.

Kane's hands formed fists at his sides. "My personal feelings are irrelevant to my professional duties."

"Your personal feelings are the only reason you're going to these lengths." I gestured toward the stack of medical files he'd been reviewing. "Admit it—you still care about me despite everything."

For a heartbeat, his professional mask cracked completely. Pain flickered across his features—raw, desperate, the look of a man at war with himself. The careful control he'd maintained for days wavered like a flame in wind.

"Of course I care," he said quietly, the words escaping before he could stop them. "That's exactly the problem."

The admission hung between us like smoke from a fire neither of us knew how to extinguish. Kane cared about me—he'd never stopped—but that caring terrified him more than any external threat.

"Caring isn't a weakness," I said softly, watching him rebuild his walls even as I spoke. "It's what makes us human."

Kane's laugh was hollow, bitter as winter air. "Caring is what got my parents killed. It makes people take unnecessary risks, make emotional decisions, ignore what's right in front of them."

A nurse interrupted us, checking on arrangements for my mother's next treatment. Kane stepped back immediately, distance snapping into place like a shield. His transformation was complete—from vulnerable man to professional operative in the space of a heartbeat.

Later, when I shared my fears about losing my mother, Kane listened with the kind of focused attention that made me feel like the only person in the world. His responses were gentle, thoughtful, completely stripped of professional pretense.

"The healers are optimistic about the new treatment approach," he said, his voice carrying genuine warmth. "The specialists from Moon Valley have remarkable success rates with similar cases."

I studied his face, noting the research he'd clearly done. "You've been studying her condition."

"Someone needed to understand the options." Kane's attempt at casual deflection failed completely. His investment was too obvious, too deep to disguise.

"Why are you doing all this?" I asked directly.

The words slipped out before he could stop them: "Because watching you suffer is worse than any tactical failure."

The truth hit the air between us like lightning. Kane's professional training had taught him to compartmentalize, but his feelings for me were too strong to suppress completely.

"You hate that you care about me," I observed.

Kane's admission was painful in its honesty. "I hate that caring about you makes me weak when you need me to be strong."

He was fighting his own emotions as hard as he fought external enemies, treating his love for me as another threat to neutralize. The psychological warfare he was conducting against himself was written in every tense line of his body.

"You're still protecting me despite resenting the assignment," I said, testing his reactions.

"I don't resent protecting you." His response was immediate, revealing. "I resent needing to."

The distinction was everything. Kane wanted to protect me, needed to protect me, but hated that those needs made him vulnerable to the kind of loss that had destroyed his family.

"Your parents died because evil people killed them," I said gently. "Not because their love caused it."

Kane's expression darkened with old pain. "They died because their emotional investment made them careless. They took risks they wouldn't have taken if they'd remained objective."

The trauma had created a belief system that equated love with weakness, emotion with tactical failure. Kane had spent years building walls to protect himself from the kind of pain that had nearly destroyed him as a child.

I began working to rebuild our professional partnership, focusing on the collaboration that had always been our strength. If I couldn't reach him emotionally, maybe I could reach him through the work that connected us.

"Help me analyze the intelligence reports," I said during one of our sessions in the family room. "Your tactical perspective is crucial."

Kane couldn't refuse without abandoning his duties, but working together forced proximity that slowly chipped away at his barriers. The familiar rhythm of collaboration reminded us both of what we'd built together.

"The coordination here suggests military-level planning," Kane observed, his analytical mind engaged despite his emotional walls. "This isn't random terrorism—it's systematic warfare."

"Exactly what I was thinking," I agreed, leaning closer to examine the documents. Our shoulders brushed, and I felt him tense at the contact.

Our professional chemistry remained intact despite everything. When we focused on the investigation, we still functioned as perfect partners, each complementing the other's strengths in ways that felt natural and right.

Kane noticed our continued effectiveness and seemed both pleased and troubled by it. Our partnership was one of the few things that transcended his fear-driven barriers.

"We should compile a comprehensive briefing for the Alpha King," Kane suggested, his voice carrying echoes of our old collaborative enthusiasm.

"Together?" I asked hopefully.

Kane paused, internal struggle visible in the tension around his eyes. Professional requirements battled against emotional barriers as he weighed the implications.

"Professional requirements necessitate combined analysis," he said finally, the bureaucratic language failing to hide his underlying agreement.

Even his agreement was couched in institutional terminology, but it was still agreement. Kane was choosing to work with me despite his emotional walls, finding ways to justify what his heart wanted through professional necessity.

As we prepared our joint briefing, I began to hope that our professional partnership might eventually rebuild the personal trust that Kane's fear had shattered.

"Your tactical analysis is invaluable," I told him as we organized our findings. "I couldn't do this without you."

Kane's response was carefully neutral, but I caught the flash of satisfaction in his eyes. "Professional collaboration produces optimal results."

It was a small beginning, but it was progress. For the first time since our escape, Kane was treating me as a partner rather than just an assignment.