The storm raged like a weeping goddess at midnight.

Rain cascaded down the crumbling apartment walls， etching liquid serpents across water-stained concrete. Through narrow stairwells howled a wind that sang funeral dirges between rusted railings.

In this decaying neighborhood clinging to the city“s edge， most windows lay dark. Only a few glimmered like drowning fireflies.

A broad-shouldered figure staggered into the stairwell.

Rainwater streamed from silver-white hair plastered across striking features that could make moonlight jealous. Emerald eyes glowed with feral wariness beneath his drenched bangs. He bore no human name - his kind knew him as the White Wolf King， Alpha of the northern werewolf tribes， last guardian of vanishing arctic packs.

Fresh wounds mapped his body in cruel topography: purple contusions from blunt weapons， crimson slashes from silver blades， angry burns crackling across his ribs where the auctioneer“s cattle prod had bitten. Every escape through the city“s underbelly had flirted with death.

Leaning against damp concrete， his wolf ears twitched beneath silver strands. Even now， the bushy tail pressed flat against his thigh trembled with tension. His nose twitched， sifting through layered scents - stale beer， mildew， human sweat.

Then it came.

Third floor. A fragrance dancing between jasmine and mint. Singular. Weak. Non-threatening.

The Wolf King paused before the steel door. Beyond it， steady breathing threaded with fabric whispers - someone working with their hands. With a click of enhanced claws， the lock surrendered.

Moonlight spilled across a modest studio apartment. Neat shelves. Faded but clean furniture. The air hummed with dried herbs in muslin sachets.

He melted into the darkest corner， tail coiled tight. Though exhaustion weighted his limbs， amber eyes remained watchful slits. Trust died screaming in iron cages.

A sound.

Soft footsteps. Fingertips brushing wallpaper.

Muscles coiled， he prepared to strike - until moonlight revealed you.

Your silhouette appeared impossibly fragile in that white nightgown. Translucent skin glowing like captured moonlight， bare feet silent on worn floorboards， chestnut hair cascading to your waist. You looked like the last trembling snowflake clinging to winter“s edge.

The Wolf King instinctively stepped forward， a warning rumble vibrating in his throat. In his world， dominance meant survival. But then you spoke.

“Hello? Is someone there?“

Your voice floated like dandelion fluff - soft， curious， utterly without fear.“Oh...did I forget to lock up again?“ you murmured to yourself， as if addressing a stray kitten rather than a bloodied predator.

The growl died in his throat.

Moonlight revealed your eyes then - twin pools of mist-choked lake water， their focus drifting past him. Your fingertips still brushed the wall， each step a cautious exploration.“I heard movement... If you're there， don't be afraid.“ Astonishingly， warmth threaded your words.“It's pouring outside. You can stay awhile.“

His claws dug into palms. He'd seen human eyes glittering with greed， shrinking with terror， blazing with hatred. Never this...this unbearable tenderness. His tail uncoiled like a loosened spring. Wolf ears， usually pricked forward in perpetual alertness， relaxed against silver strands.

Memories surfaced - the tribe's blind shaman who'd always known whose wounds needed tending.

You'd reached the threadbare sofa now.“May I get you water?“ Your head tilted like a songbird's.“Your breathing sounds...tired.“

The Alpha stood paralyzed. Every survival instinct screamed to intimidate， to flee. Yet your exposed throat and open palms left him weaponless against this strange invasion.

Silence pooled between you. The air thickened with his wild musk and your jasmine soap. But where others cowered， you simply waited. Years of darkness had honed your senses - this presence held power， yet no malice.

Then your gasp shattered the stillness.

“Oh!“ Palms clapped together in sudden delight. Your face lit up like dawn breaking over frosted pines.“You must be the guide beastfolk from Aunt Lisa's program!“

_Last month's memory unfolded - the community square where you sold herb sachets， Lisa's excited whisper cutting through lavender-scented air._

“Thea， child!“ The old woman had gripped your wrist.“There's this wonderful new initiative - trained beastfolk guides for the visually impaired! They can take you shopping， help navigate streets...“_

Your needle had pricked your thumb. Guide beastfolk - loyal companions who saw the world for you. But the cost... Your embroidery sales could never afford even a year's training fees._

Now moonlight gilded your hopeful smile as you reached toward the shadows.“I didn't think they'd approve my application so fast!“

When silence stretched too long， your fingers twisted the hem of your nightgown.“I know it's not much...“ The words trembled like spider silk.“But you'll never go hungry here. The house is old， but...cozy. My parents left it to me.“

Your voice dwindled， afraid the peeling wallpaper might scare away this miracle.“If...if you'd prefer a better home， I could ask Aunt Lisa—“

“No.“

The voice rolled through the kitchen like wind through ancient pines - deep， resonant， carrying the crispness of crushed juniper needles. You froze.

Guide beastfolk weren't supposed to speak human tongues. Weren't supposed to sound like midnight made audible. Yet this voice， though frost-edged， warmed some hidden place beneath your ribs.

“Here...is acceptable.“

Your fingertips found familiar grooves in the wall - childhood dent here， fresh plaster there. The tactile map guided you toward clattering pans.“You must be hungry. Let me cook something.“

His gaze burned between your shoulder blades as you moved. The kitchen unfolded through scent and memory: gingerroot's sharp sting from the cutting board， star anise blooming in ceramic jars， dewdrops clinging to washed spinach. Your nose charted the terrain better than any sighted person's eyes.

The second upper cabinet clicked open under practiced fingers. Embossed dots on its door identified the rice bin - your tactile labeling system turned mundane shelves into braille libraries. Measured grains cascaded into your special cup， its raised lines gauging portions through touch.“It's nothing fancy...“ The induction cooker beeped under your command， its buttons marked with different textured stickers.“But my fried rice isn't terrible.“

As oil sizzled， you caught the whisper of denim shifting. He'd moved closer. The air thickened with wolf musk and blood， yet strangely， your hands remained steady. For the first time since the accident， the emptiness between these walls didn't ache.

Golden aromas soon swirled around you.“Done.“ You set two steaming plates at the table where parental laughter once lived.“It's...not restaurant quality， but—“

The ravenous scraping of metal on porcelain cut through your apology. He ate like winter itself chased his hunger. Three days starving in concrete labyrinths couldn't dampen a wolf's pride - until your humble dish broke him.

“More?“ Your thumb traced the table's chipped edge when his plate clinked empty.

“Enough.“ The growl softened to autumn leaves rustling.

Silence pooled between you. Your pulse quickened as darkness played tricks - his breathing seemed closer now， warmer.

“May I...“ The question escaped before courage failed.“Touch you? My hands...they're how I see.“ Heat flooded your cheeks.“I want to know your face.“

Air crystallized. Somewhere， a clock ticked thrice.

“Proceed.“

Rising slowly， you navigated toward the heat source. Your extended hand trembled - not from fear， but the dizzying sense of approaching a banked fire. Dangerous. Irresistible.

Fingertips grazed something unexpectedly human. Warm skin. Angular jaw. Then—

A flinch.

Your breath caught. Beneath the stubble lay raised scars still seeping.

Your fingertips lingered despite your tension， tracing contours that felt carved by steppe winds and glacial crevices.

Then you found his ears.

Not the soft folds of a service beastfolk's， but dagger-sharp points fringed with coarse fur—like stroking frost-kissed meadow grass. A whimper caught in your throat.

Unseen by you， his entire body vibrated with contained violence. Fresh memories surged—the auction house's bloodslick floors， human throats tearing beneath his fangs， warm viscera spraying across concrete. Only the storm's baptism had cleansed him enough to enter your sanctuary.

He willed his claws to retract as your touch scalded him worse than silver burns.

_Humans._ The word curdled in his mind. Flashbacks erupted—poachers' trucks chasing wheezing elders across tundra， traitors feigning injury to slaughter compassionate pups. That young beta's dying whine still haunted his dreams.

This fragile creature before him? Another honey-coated trap. Had to be.

Your hand brushed his throat.

Muscles locked. Instinct screamed to crush the delicate wrist hovering over his pulse. Yet when you gasped upon discovering his wounds， your concern smelled... pure.

“You're hurt!“

Before he could react， you'd fled to a cabinet， fingers dancing across embossed labels. The first aid kit's contents clattered—alcohol swabs， gauze， scissors with rounded tips designed for blind hands.

His nostrils flared as you returned. Predators don't accept help. Weakness gets you killed. Yet your bandaging touch—lighter than snowmelt—left him disarmed.

“Almost done.“ Your smile warmed the air between you.“There. All better.“

When you patted his forearm like soothing a skittish stray， his pupils slitted.

“Good boy.“

The praise struck like a silver bullet.

_Good?_ His hackles rose. He was death incarnate， a monarch who'd painted tundra red with challengers' blood. Yet under your sightless gaze， he sat motionless as you called him..._obedient._