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In his sleek, black, nine-tailed fox form, Stiles whimpered, his body trembling as he lay hidden deep within the forest. Pain lanced through him with every breath, his fur matted with blood—a cruel reminder of the punishment Aleksandr, his werewolf alpha, had inflicted. His crime? Accidentally knocking over and shattering the glass rose Aleksandr’s deceased mate had crafted before her untimely death.The werewolf pack had taken Stiles in after he fled his original pack, who had shunned him for his unnatural transformation into a human-nogitsune hybrid—a creature unheard of. Though his new pack treated him with cautious kindness, there was always fear in their eyes. All except Aleksandr, whose gaze held only cold resentment.A nogitsune had killed Aleksandr’s mate, and though Stiles had no part in it, the alpha's hatred was misdirected, sharp as a blade, and aimed solely at him. Fear of Aleksandr had become a constant in Stiles' life, worsened by the collar the alpha had forged to suppress his nogitsune abilities, forcing him to remain mostly human. But the collar did more than restrain his power—it made him entirely dependent on Aleksandr. Without it, the nogitsune within would awaken, consuming him, transforming him into the same ruthless entity that had once possessed him.Worse still, the collar suppressed his healing, leaving every wound to linger, and every bruise to deepen. Every punishment Aleksandr dealt became a lasting agony, a waking nightmare.A sharp wave of pain tore through him, forcing a desperate, high-pitched scream from his throat—a keening, broken sound, raw with agony. The eerie cry of a fox in distress, wild and unnatural, cut through the stillness of the forest. If anyone had heard it, they might have mistaken it for something supernatural, something haunting. His breathing hitched as his vision blurred, his body growing weaker by the second.He needed help. But there was no one to turn to—no one who would dare defy Aleksandr. The pack always averted their eyes when Aleksandr punished him, too afraid to intervene. And rightly so—their alpha was not a man to be crossed.But as another jolt of agony wracked his frail body, Stiles felt something inside him fracture. He couldn’t keep living like this—torn apart, left bleeding, and broken time and time again.Slowly, he dragged himself from beneath the shelter of the underbrush, each movement a fresh agony. He needed shelter. He needed treatment. The only place he could find either was the pack house. If he begged Aleksandr, maybe—just maybe—the alpha would unlock his abilities, and allow him to heal. It was humiliating but better than dying alone in the woods.With a pained whine, he forced himself onto unsteady legs, swaying as he stumbled forward. Every step was agony. Hot tears streaked down his face, but he pushed on, driven by a desperate instinct to survive. The pack house loomed ahead, a flickering beacon of hope and dread.He made it to the doorstep before his body finally gave out. The world blurred, darkness creeping in at the edges of his vision. As he collapsed, another sharp, broken scream tore from his throat—a last, pitiful sound of distress before silence overtook him.Aleksandr paced the length of the pack house, his mind consumed by ghosts of the past. Anastasia. Her name was a wound that refused to heal. He could still hear her laughter echoing through these halls, still see the warmth of her smile in the flickering candlelight. But memories were cruel, whispering reminders of everything he had lost.Then, piercing through the night, he heard it.A fox’s scream.Shrill. Pained. A sound that sent an involuntary shiver down his spine.His eyes narrowed as he strode toward the door, throwing it open.There, on the doorstep, lay Stiles.His fragile form was riddled with wounds, his fur slick with blood. Even unconscious, his breath hitched in small, painful whimpers.For a long moment, Aleksandr simply stared, expression unreadable. Then, without a word, he bent down and scooped the broken creature into his arms. He carried him inside, laying him gently on the couch.He didn’t like the hybrid, but he wouldn’t let him die at his feet.As he pressed a cloth to Stiles’ worst wounds, staunching the bleeding, guilt twisted in his chest—an unfamiliar, unwelcome feeling. He had punished the creature harshly for breaking Anastasia’s rose, but looking at Stiles now—his body fragile, his breaths shallow—Aleksandr wondered if, this time, he had gone too far.