The Alpha Who Hunted Me: His Wolfless Healer Mate

Elara POV:

He ignored my glare.

My eyes still burned from the performance he had forced on me, but I kept my face crumpled and frightened, my breathing uneven, my shoulders folded inward. Let him see a shaken girl on the floor. Let him believe that was all I was.

The man, this devil in my compartment, moved to the small seat opposite me and ripped a long strip from the hem of his ruined shirt. His movements were efficient, economical, even as blood continued to seep from the wound on his shoulder. He wrapped the makeshift bandage tightly, his jaw set.

My ragged breaths slowly quieted. I watched him through lowered lashes, my fear on display while my mind sharpened behind it. His technique was crude. The bleeding wasn't stopping. The Healer in me cataloged the symptoms, the depth of the wound, the risk of infection. A part of me, the part my mother had trained, felt an automatic urge to help.

I crushed it without a second thought.

He finished his clumsy first aid and then his silver eyes were on me again. He crossed the small space in two strides and crouched down in front of me, his presence overwhelming. His fingers, rough and calloused, seized my chin, forcing my head up.

I let my chin tremble under his grip. I let my eyes widen, wet and furious beneath the fear. Every helpless little reaction was another layer of disguise.

His gaze wasn't on my eyes. It was fixed on my neck. On the thin silver chain I always wore. On the smooth, milky stone that rested in the hollow of my throat.

My moonstone. My mother's last gift.

His thumb brushed against the stone. A faint, pure energy, imperceptible to most, seemed to hum under his touch. His eyes narrowed. "What is this?"

"Don't touch it!" The words flew out of me, sharp and panicked. "Give it back!"

My fierce reaction only seemed to pique his interest. A ghost of a smile touched his lips. With a single, sharp tug, he snapped the delicate chain. The loss felt like a physical blow.

I lunged for it, a desperate, foolish move. "No!"

He shoved me back effortlessly. I landed hard against the base of the door. He stood up, the moonstone pendant resting in his large, blood-stained palm.

"I'm keeping this," he said, his voice casual, but his eyes were anything but. "A token. Something to return to you when I find you again."

He rolled the smooth stone between his thumb and forefinger. "What's your name?"

I pressed my lips together, glaring at him with all the hatred I felt.

He let out that low, dangerous laugh again. "Doesn't matter. We'll be seeing each other again in Blackwood City. I'll find you."

He slipped the pendant into his pocket. It wasn't a souvenir. It was a promise, a claim, a stolen excuse for a second meeting. Panic, cold and real, seized me. I couldn't let him find me. My entire plan depended on anonymity, on being underestimated.

The train's brakes hissed, and the rhythm of the wheels began to slow. A tinny voice announced our approach to a small, unscheduled stop-a junction in the middle of nowhere.

He heard it too. He glanced out the window into the darkness, then back at me. It was time for him to go.

He turned his back on me to unlock the door. For a single, fatal second, he dismissed me. In his mind, I was still the trembling girl on the floor, too frightened to do anything but obey.

His mistake.

My eyes locked onto the bulge under the back of his jacket. The distinct, hard outline of a handgun tucked into his waistband.

The moment his fingers touched the lock, I moved.

I didn't make a sound. The fear dropped away from my face like a discarded veil. I launched myself from the floor like a striking snake. I didn't go for his wounded shoulder or his legs. I went for the gun. My hand shot out, my fingers closing around the cool, checkered grip. I twisted my body, using his own momentum against him, and pulled.

The weapon slid free from its holster with a soft shush of leather.

The motion was fast, fluid, and expertly executed. It was not the move of a frightened country girl.

He felt the sudden lightness at his back and spun around. For the first time since he'd burst through my door, his face registered genuine, absolute surprise.

It was too late.

I had already scrambled to the far side of the compartment. I held the gun with both hands, just as I'd been taught. The heavy weight was unfamiliar but steady. I leveled the barrel at the center of his chest.

My hands were shaking, but my voice was ice.

"Now it's your turn," I said, my voice low and tight. "Get out."

He stared at me, at the gun, then back at my face. The surprise in his eyes slowly melted away, replaced by a dark, predatory amusement. He laughed. A real laugh this time, deep and appreciative.

He slowly raised his hands in a gesture of surrender.

"Well, well," he murmured, his silver eyes gleaming with a disturbing light. "Looks like I found myself a little stray with claws."

He made no move to get the gun back. He just held my gaze for a long, searing moment, as if memorizing every detail of my face. Then, he turned, slid the door open, and leaped from the slowly moving train, vanishing into the night.

I stayed frozen, the gun aimed at the empty doorway, until the train began to pick up speed again. Only then did the tension break. I sank to my knees, the heavy weapon still in my hands, and gasped for air, my whole body shaking with the aftermath of adrenaline.

I looked down at the gun. It was a SIG Sauer P226. Military grade. Heavy, solid, and deadly.

Whoever that man was, he was no common criminal. And he was heading to the same city I was.