Chapter 4
Sloane's POV
I stood pressed against the wall, my heart hammering so loud I was sure he could hear it. The mysterious man sat on my bed, his body trembling from his injuries but still coiled like a spring ready to strike.
"I...I don't mean any harm," I said softly, slowly raising my hands to show I wasn't a threat. "I'm the one who saved you."
He tilted his head at the sound of my voice, like an animal trying to understand a foreign noise. His nostrils flared slightly, and I realized he was scenting me, trying to determine if I was friend or foe. A low rumbling sound emerged from his throat.
He doesn't understand a word I'm saying.
The thought hit me hard. This wasn't just confusion from blood loss or pain. Something was seriously wrong. His reactions, the way he moved, that empty look in his eyes, like he'd gone back to some primitive state.
This is worse than I thought.
I spotted the breakfast I'd made earlier on the nightstand. Moving as slowly as possible, I picked up the plate and stepped toward him. He tensed immediately, muscles going tight under his torn shirt, ready to bolt or fight.
"Okay, okay," I whispered, freezing in place. "I'll just...put this here."
I set the plate on the floor between us, then backed away to the wall again. His gaze flicked between me and the food, nostrils twitching. After what felt like an eternity, he slid off the bed and moved toward the plate on all fours, never taking his eyes off me.
I slipped out of the room as quietly as possible, closing the door with trembling fingers. My back hit the wood and I slid down against it, my heart still racing from the encounter. With shaking hands, I pulled out my old, cracked phone and dialed Gaia's number.
"Gaia, I'm in serious trouble..." I whispered when she answered.
"What? You saved some strange guy? Oh my god, Sloane! I'm coming over right now!"
"Okay."
Twenty minutes later, Gaia's hurried footsteps reached my door. I opened it to find worry all over her face.
"Where is he?" she asked, stepping inside.
"In the bedroom. But we need to be quiet—"
We crept to the bedroom door and cracked it open. What we saw made my heart ache and Gaia gasp.
The man was on the ground on all fours, grabbing pieces of bread with his hands and eating in the most primitive way possible. His movements were raw, purely instinctual. After finishing, he licked his fingers clean and curled up in a ball.
Gaia sucked in a sharp breath.
I pulled her back to the living room. "See what I mean?"
"What the hell happened to him?" she whispered.
"I think he hit his head when he got hurt. Or maybe it's from severe blood loss. Sometimes trauma can cause this kind of...regression."
"Regression?"
"His brain basically shut down everything except survival instincts. He can't process language, can't remember how to act around people. It's like he's been stripped back to pure animal behavior."
Gaia stared at me. "That makes him even more dangerous! What if he attacks you? You don't know anything about him, where he came from, what he's capable of. You should take him to the pack's medical facility right now."
"In this condition?"
"You think you can handle this?" Gaia's voice rose, then she caught herself. "Sloane, you're not qualified for something like this. What if he hurts you?"
"He won't." The certainty in my voice surprised me. "I can see it in his eyes. He's scared and confused, not violent."
Gaia grabbed my shoulders. "Promise me you'll be careful. Promise me you won't take stupid risks."
"I promise."
"I'm staying here tonight."
"No." I shook my head. "Your mom will worry if you don't come home. I can handle this."
She looked like she wanted to argue, but finally nodded. "Call me if anything happens. Anything."
After she left, the quiet settled around me like a weight.
The rest of the day passed in careful watching. Every few hours, I'd check on him, noting small changes.
After Gaia left: he was deeply asleep, breathing heavy. Sometimes soft whimpers escaped, and his body would twitch like he was fighting invisible demons.
Noon: when I brought fresh water and some broth, he stirred slightly at the scent of the food, though he didn't wake.
Afternoon: I found him in a different position, curled tighter, but his breathing seemed more regular.
Evening approached, and I was in the kitchen making simple dinner when I heard movement from the bedroom. My hands stilled on the knife. He was waking up.
I crept to the bedroom door and peered inside. He was sitting up slowly, black eyes blinking in confusion as he looked around. When he tried to stand, his legs buckled, and he collapsed back with a frustrated grunt.
"You're awake," I said softly from the doorway. "How are you feeling?"
He turned toward my voice, head tilting in that same way. This time, instead of aggression, I saw only confusion. He opened his mouth and made some sounds, not quite words, but closer to language than this morning's growls.
"It's okay," I said, stepping carefully into the room. "You're safe here."
He watched me with those impossible black eyes as I set a glass of water within reach. When I gestured toward it, he sniffed cautiously before taking a small sip.
By nine o'clock, exhaustion was pulling at me. I left him with easy food and fresh water, double-checked that the door opened from inside, and stumbled to the living room.
The sofa was my bed now. I collapsed without even changing clothes, staring at the water stain on the ceiling that looked like a wolf's head.
In the distance, I could hear soft sounds of him moving around, probably eating the dinner I'd left.
Two more days, I decided. When he gets better, he'll need somewhere new to go.