Lucien woke to the wrong ceiling.
It was too low. Too close. Stained faintly with water damage in one corner, like a scar that had never fully healed. The light filtering through the curtains was weak, muted by cheap fabric and a city that did not care about dawn ceremonies or territory claims.
He lay still.
Listened.
This was not his land.
His body told him that immediately. The air smelled wrong—soap, detergent, old wood, something burned recently. No pack. No forest. No wind carrying familiar warnings.
Human territory.
He tried to rise.
Pain flared along his side, sharp and deeply insulting.
Lucien froze.
He assessed the damage the way alphas were trained to do: quickly, honestly, without dramatics.
Not fatal.
Not permanent.
But enough to slow him.
Enough to humiliate him.
An alpha did not wake on a stranger's floor.
An alpha did not get struck by metal beasts and left bleeding in the rain.
An alpha certainly did not survive because a human woman wrapped him in her coat and paid for his injuries with money.
Lucien closed his eyes.
Temporary.
This would be temporary.
He tested his limbs again, more carefully this time. The pain had already dulled—less sharp than it should have been. The muscles responded cleanly, obediently, as if the damage were already retreating.
That was… unusual.
He inhaled slowly.
Healing like this should take days. Longer, after a blow like that.
His body, however, disagreed.
Interesting.
Footsteps sounded.
Lucien did not move.
The human entered quietly, careful in a way most humans were not. She froze when she saw his eyes open.
"Oh," she said. "You're awake."
He studied her.
She was smaller up close. Tired. Her hair was pulled back in a way that suggested impatience rather than vanity. She smelled of antiseptic, rain, and something newly broken that had not yet decided how to express itself.
She approached slowly, respectful of distance.
Good.
"You're safe," she said. "The vet said you shouldn't move much."
Lucien closed his eyes again.
Vet.
The indignity multiplied.
She hovered for a moment, then retreated, apparently satisfied that he was still breathing.
Lucien waited until the room was quiet again before opening his eyes.
He memorized the space.
One door. One window. No immediate threats. A cheap couch pushed against the wall. A table with a single chair. Everything was arranged inefficiently.
The human lived alone.
That was both a weakness and an advantage.
He shifted slightly and felt the bandage around his side—competently applied. Clean. Professional.
Annoyingly well done.
He tested the wound again, this time focusing inward.
The damage was already knitting together.
Too fast.
Lucien frowned.
He was not exerting effort. He was not calling power.
And yet—
He breathed out slowly.
He would need to be careful.
If she noticed, questions would follow.
And questions led to exposure.
Exposure led to consequences.
The human returned with a bowl of water.
She placed it near him and crouched, watching his reaction.
Lucien waited until she looked away before drinking.
The water was lukewarm.
Acceptable.
"You're very calm," she said, half to herself. "Most dogs would be panicking."
I am not a dog, Lucien thought coldly.
But he did not bare his teeth.
Not yet.
She sat cross-legged on the floor a short distance away, phone in her hands, shoulders slumped. For a moment, she looked smaller. Less guarded.
Lucien watched her with the careful attention reserved for unstable environments.
She did not feel like a threat.
She felt like a variable.
Later, when she left again, Lucien tested his body more thoroughly.
He rose to a sitting position without sound.
The pain flared—then retreated.
Annoyance replaced it.
He stood.
Only for a second.
But he stood.
His balance was steady. His muscles responsive.
Too responsive.
He lowered himself back down before she could return.
This would require restraint.
Humiliation, yes—but strategic humiliation.
He would heal in days when it should take weeks.
He would walk when she expected limping.
He would eat when it suited him.
And until then—
Lucien lay down and closed his eyes.
Temporary, he decided.
I will endure this.