A Dying Boy Knocked on a Lonely Omega’s Door—Then Royal Guards Arrived and Called Him Their Missing Prince

Chapter 3

He sat up slowly, wincing as if movement caused him pain. Now that she could see him properly in daylight, she noticed things that had escaped her attention in the storm’s chaos. Faint bruises along his arms. Partially healed cuts on his hands. A thin scar along his left temple that looked recent but was already fading with supernatural speed.

Someone had hurt this child. The realization made her wolf snarl beneath her skin, a protective fury she had never experienced before flooding her system.

“Are you hungry?” she asked, forcing her voice to remain calm. “I can make some breakfast.”

The boy nodded eagerly. Color was returning to his pale cheeks. Whatever ordeal he had endured, he was resilient — a trait that would serve him well in the days to come.

In the kitchen, Perdita prepared a simple meal of scrambled eggs, toast with honey, and fresh milk. The domestic routine helped calm her racing thoughts, though she found herself glancing frequently toward the bed where the child sat watching her with those unnervingly intelligent eyes.

When she brought him the tray, he ate with the careful manners of someone who had been taught proper etiquette, but also with the desperate hunger of someone who had not eaten in days.

“My name is Perdita,” she said when he had finished. “Can you tell me yours?”

The boy opened his mouth, then closed it, frustration flickering across his features. He pointed to his throat and shook his head, but then he also tapped his temple and made a gesture that suggested confusion rather than inability.

“You can’t remember?” Perdita asked gently.

He nodded, tears gathering in his eyes.

“That’s all right,” she said quickly, reaching out to touch his hand. “Sometimes when we’re very frightened, our minds protect us by hiding things that are too painful to remember. It doesn’t mean they’re gone forever.”

The child’s small fingers wrapped around hers with surprising strength, and she felt a jolt of something electric pass between them. For a moment, images flashed through her mind that were not her own. A woman’s face — beautiful but terrified — pressed against glass. The sound of breaking wood and angry voices. The sensation of being lifted and carried through darkness while someone whispered desperate prayers.

Perdita gasped, pulling back. The boy’s eyes were wide with shock, his mouth forming a perfect O of surprise.

“You felt that too,” she whispered. “Didn’t you?”

He nodded slowly, wonder replacing fear in his expression.

What was this child? Pack bonds could sometimes create emotional connections between members, but she had never heard of anything like this. The flash of memories had been so vivid, so immediate, as if she had experienced them herself.

A sharp knock at the door interrupted her thoughts.

This was not the soft, desperate tapping of the night before. This was authoritative. Demanding.

The boy’s reaction was immediate and visceral. He scrambled backward on the bed, pulling the comforter over his head as his entire body began to shake. The scent of his terror filled the room so strong it made Perdita’s eyes water.

“Stay here,” she whispered, gently pulling the blanket back enough to see his face. “I’ll handle this. You’re safe.”

But even as she said the words, she was not sure they were true.