Chapter 6: Chapter 6: Breathe
(Elena)
He’s on the edge of my bed again, back straight, fists on his knees, eyes fixed on the wall behind me like it owes him something.
He won’t look at me.
That’s fine. He’ll learn.
Morning light comes through the window, pale and grey. His hair is still damp from the bath I ordered, the fresh shirt I gave him hanging loose off his thin frame. I pull a chair in front of him and sit down, our knees almost touching.
"Look at me."
He doesn’t.
I wait. A full minute, maybe more.
Finally those golden eyes slide toward mine — wary, suspicious, like a stray bracing for a kick.
"Give me your hand."
"Why?"
"Because I asked."
"I don’t have to do what you say."
"You’re in my territory. My room. My bed. You’ll do what I say until you earn the right to refuse."
He scowls. But he lifts his left hand.
I take it. His fingers are cold and calloused, bandages clean — I changed them this morning before he was awake. I turn his palm up and trace a line down the center with my thumb.
He twitches.
"Ticklish?" I ask.
"No."
"Liar."
His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t pull away.
I just hold his hand. Both of mine wrapped around his, not moving, letting him feel the weight and warmth of it. His pulse hammers against my fingers.
"Your heart’s racing," I say.
"You can’t hear it from there."
"I can feel it through your pulse."
He swallows.
I let go. "Other one."
He gives me his right hand without arguing. Palm up, thumb trace — he twitches again but controls it better this time.
"You’re trying," I say.
"I’m not trying anything."
"You’re not biting me. That counts."
The corner of his mouth moves. Almost a smile. Then it flattens back out.
"Why are we doing this?" he asks.
"Because you flinch when people touch you. That’s fine for a rogue. It’s not fine for a mate."
"I’m not your mate yet."
"You will be. And when you are, you can’t stand beside me looking like you’re about to attack anyone who brushes your sleeve." I keep my eyes on his. "Touch isn’t just about sex. It’s about letting someone close enough to hurt you and trusting them not to."
"I don’t trust anyone."
"I know."
He pulls his hand back and crosses his arms over his chest. I let him have that minute.
Then I stand. "Get up."
He does. Slow and reluctant.
I move behind him.
His entire body locks up immediately.
"Relax."
"You’re behind me. I can’t see you."
"That’s the point."
I place my hands on his shoulders. He flinches so hard he nearly stumbles forward, shoulders flying up to his ears. I keep my hands exactly where they are. Light. Still. Waiting.
"Breathe. In through your nose."
His chest rises.
"Out through your mouth."
He exhales — shaky, uneven, but he does it.
"Again."
Another breath. Better. His shoulders drop a fraction.
I squeeze gently, just enough pressure to be felt, and he flinches again — smaller this time.
"Don’t fight it," I say. "You’re not in danger."
"You don’t know that."
"I’m your Alpha. I’m going to be your mate. I’m not your enemy."
He doesn’t answer. But he breathes.
I move my hands down his arms, just fingertips trailing from his shoulders to his elbows and back up. He shivers.
"Scared?" I ask.
"No."
"Liar again."
His ears go pink.
I find the knots in his shoulder blades with my thumbs and work slow circles into them. Months of cave floors living in his muscles, years of running and fighting and never once being touched without pain.
"Who hurt you?" I ask quietly.
"Everyone."
"That’s not an answer."
"It’s the only one you’re getting."
I don’t push. I move my hands to the back of his neck instead, fingers brushing damp hair.
He freezes completely.
"Breathe," I remind him.
A long slow breath. His neck stays rigid, but he doesn’t pull away.
"I’m going to count to ten," I say. "By ten, I want your shoulders down. No tension."
"That’s not how bodies work."
"Try anyway."
One. Two. Three — his shoulders drop a little. Four. Five. Six — more, not all the way but better. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten.
Still raised. But not as bad. And he hasn’t flinched in over a minute.
"Again."
We do it five more times. Each round his flinch gets smaller, his shoulders drop a little lower, his breath comes a little steadier. By the fifth time, he’s not flinching at all — still stiff as a board, but holding.
"Sit down," I say, guiding him back to the bed edge.
He sits.
"Shirt off."
His eyes go wide. "No—"
"Rhydian."
"You just want to—"
"I want skin contact. Fabric gets in the way." I hold his gaze. "Take it off or I’ll do it for you."
He glares at me for a long moment. Then his hands go to the hem and he pulls it over his head, slow and reluctant, like each inch costs him something.
The scars again. Pale ones, pink ones, the bruise on his shoulder gone yellow at the edges. I don’t stare. I put my palms flat on his bare shoulders and he gasps — small, sharp, almost a whimper.
"Cold hands," he manages.
"They’ll warm up."
I press gently. Feel his skin burning underneath — he’s running hot from nerves, heart going like something trapped.
"Breathe with me," I say. "Match my rhythm."
I breathe in. He breathes in.
Out. He breathes out.
In. Out. In. Out.
His shoulders begin to move with it, rising and falling, and something in his face goes loose and quiet. He looks almost peaceful, eyes half-closed, mouth slightly open.
I slide my hands to the base of his neck, thumbs on either side of his spine.
He makes a sound — not a word, just a soft exhale that he clearly didn’t intend.
"Good boy," I murmur.
The words come out before I think about them. Quiet, warm, almost without meaning to.
His ears go red. Not pink this time — red. Bright red, spreading from the tips all the way down to his neck.
He opens his eyes and looks at me, something new sitting behind them. Not fear, not defiance — something younger than either of those.
"Don’t call me that," he says, voice rough.
"Why not? You are being good."
"It makes me feel—" He stops.
"Makes you feel what?"
"Weak. Like a kid."
"Weak men don’t survive four years alone. Weak men don’t fight six enforcers with their hands chained." I hold his gaze. "You’re not weak. You’re just not used to this."
He looks away, ears still burning.
I put my hands back on his shoulders. He flinches once — catches himself — takes a breath. The muscle softens underneath my palms.
"Good boy," I say again. Quieter. Just to see.
His ears go deeper red. But he doesn’t tell me to stop.
When I slide my thumbs up either side of his neck, he tilts his head back. Just slightly. Just enough.
Offering me his throat.
Not submission. Something else — something that took four years of surviving alone to forget how to do.
Trust.
I don’t say a word about it. I just keep touching, keep breathing, keep teaching.
The lesson isn’t over. But we’ve made a start.
