The King's Return

50| YOU DECIDED TO MOVE IN WITH ME OUT OF PITY

AMIRA'S POV

As I watched him sleep, I could see the conflict raging inside Logan from his erratic movements. Even though it was his second time falling asleep that day, he didn't seem to be at ease. Twisting and turning, his forehead creased with subconscious concern, he appeared to be engaged in a conflict even while he slept.

Logan shouldn't be prone to fevers like humans because he is a werewolf, especially if he has no apparent wounds. He shouldn't have been susceptible to such common illnesses in the first place, but here he was, covered in sweat, his body fighting an invisible enemy.

His agony broke my heart into a thousand small pieces, causing it to throb every now and then. I was aware that he had attempted to connect with his wolf before, finding comfort in the dependable relationship that had always provided support. But instead of consolation, he had experienced anguish—a searing suffering that shook the bond between us and left me reeling.

Though we hadn't fully mated, I was able to feel the pain he experienced as if it were mine. Even though our relationship had barely begun again, there was an unfathomable bond between us. And at that very time, I would have done everything to save him the pain and drive out the darkness that plagued his restless dreams.

He was clearly struggling to remain awake and participate in even the most simple discussion, despite his best attempts. His expression conveyed a lot of clarity about the toll his illness had taken on him; the expression of tiredness engraved into its lines spoke volumes.

I was faced with a sobering realisation as I sat by his side, searching my mind for answers: I still had no idea why he was suffering. I was unable to solve the riddle around his illness, like a puzzle whose parts would not fit together no matter how hard I tried.

One idea kept coming to me while I sat there, trying to answer the plethora of questions that were racing through my head. Is Logan's current condition somehow a result of his history as a human? Ultimately, he had lived as a human for the first twenty years of his existence. At first thought, it seemed a tenable answer, but deeper inspection revealed it to be false. If his years as a human were the true source of his pain, then his sister and father must have suffered from similar illnesses. However, based on what little I could deduce from Logan's behaviour, it was evident that he had no idea either, otherwise he would have told me.

I had an intense desire to ask my family for help, a fervent cry for direction in the face of uncertainty. But as soon as I entertained the idea, a surge of anxiety swept through me. How would Logan respond if I told people about his difficulties? He was extremely private about topics pertaining to his well-being and would fight tooth and nail to keep it that way. And because he was the king of werewolves, everyone in his vicinity watched and analysed every action he made. It seemed like a violation of our relationship and a breach of trust to discuss his issues with others without getting his permission.

I accepted the truth of our circumstances with a sad heart. If we wanted to solve the riddle behind Logan's health, we would have to do so on our own. Undoubtedly, it was an intimidating prospect, but one we would confront collectively, bonded by our shared resolve to uncover the answers.

Refocusing on the current work, I continued to unpack my stuff, finding solace in the monotony of the process as a diversion from the weight of my concerns. I couldn't help but peek into Logan's room as I carefully put each thing in the closet. He remained buried deep in his restless sleep.

As I worked, it felt like there was no end to the time, and the minutes passed painfully slowly. Eventually, though, I finished the work, and my little belongings were now stuffed inside the closet. And yet, there was still a feeling of disquiet in the air despite the sense of satisfaction that came with finishing the assignment.

I forced myself from the bed and into the kitchen, sighing as the cold tile floor seeped through the bottoms of my slippers. I opened the refrigerator door to the sound of its usual hum and saw a meagre assortment of items that left a lot to be desired.

Greta, who was clearly concerned and wanted to assist, had earlier volunteered to come and cook for us. I was resolved to take on the responsibility by myself, therefore I had turned down her offer. Logan's present state and the toll his sickness had taken on him were the last things I wanted her to see.

I couldn't help but feel guilty for keeping Greta at a distance as I looked through the fridge's contents. Despite her unwavering kindness and support since my arrival, I had chosen to keep her at a distance because I didn't want to put Logan's vulnerability in front of other people.

However, I could still hear Samantha's comments echoing in my head, her shock at my hasty choice to move in with Logan. She shared my concern about him, and her worry was a reflection of their shared relationship as siblings.

When I had contacted Samantha earlier, I could hear her relief at the thought of someone taking care of Logan, and she had given me Greta's contact details and Logan's address. When she had attempted to contact him directly, she had been met with silence, which revealed a great deal about the extent of his pain and his decision not to share.

A resolve began to grow within me as I continued to think about Samantha's words. Whatever reservations or unanswered issues I had, there was no denying that Logan needed me more than ever at this point. And I would do whatever was necessary to relieve his suffering and provide him with comfort as long as I had breath in my lungs.

With renewed determination, I began making a modest meal, the rhythmic chop of vegetables and the sizzle of frying oil creating a calming music that filled the empty spaces between us. I couldn't help but hope that the scent of the food would be enough to drive away the ghosts that were haunting Logan's alarming dreams as it wandered through the air.

I grabbed my phone and looked up foods that would be good for someone with a fever. My thoughts raced with doubt as I flipped through my phone's search results. My only prior experience with patient care was listening to Maya through her heartbreaking moments. I had never been entrusted with looking after someone who was ill. However, now that I had to take care of Logan, I was determined to step up to the task.

In my search for appropriate food, Google was a great help, providing me with a wide range of possibilities that were expressly designed for those suffering from fever. Of all of them, chicken soup was the clear winner; it's a hearty meal that's known for soothing the body and soul.

Once more, I focused on what was inside the refrigerator and noticed a plump chicken tucked under a mountain of condiments. It seems as though destiny had begrudged me everything I needed for my cooking effort.

With a sense of purpose, I got to work, the comfortable motions of chopping and slicing providing a nice diversion from the weight of my concerns just like earlier. The smell of boiling soup filled the air, and I couldn't help but feel a tiny bit proud of my newly discovered culinary skills.

But I encountered a small obstacle when it came time to add the noodles. I looked through Logan's cabinets for package noodles, but I couldn't find any, so I had to make do with what I had on hand. Constantly I grabbed the flour and eggs, resolved to create the ideal side dish for the hot bowl of soup.

I began to mix and knead the dough with deft hands, and as I did so, the sound of my palms thudding on the countertop created a calming beat that filled the empty kitchen. And as I worked with the dough, rolling it out and slicing it into thin strips, I was struck by the task's simple beauty—a labour of love made with care and affection.

I couldn't contain my happiness as I put the handmade noodles to the pot. It dawned on me then that taking care of Logan was a luxury rather than a responsibility.

After cooking for a while, I went to see whether Logan was awake. Logan's eyelids fluttered open as I walked into the room, a waft of scented steam trailing behind me. His hesitant yet relieved glance met mine.

"Amor," he said, his voice a little nervous and relieved at the same time. "I was wondering if you decided I wasn’t worth it and left while I was asleep."

His tired smile sent a stab of remorse through me as I walked up to him. Even in the midst of his playful effort at humour, I could feel the anxiety lurking behind his words—the fear of being abandoned again and having to confront his problems by himself.

"You're dying, but you still have time to make jokes," I admonished gently, my heart breaking at the notion of his distress. "And out of all jokes in the world, why would you joke about something like that?"

Logan's eyes darted to mine in need of confirmation as his laughter wavered. "It's not my fault," he said, regret weighing heavily in his voice. "When you abandoned me in Manchester and didn't say anything, I went insane. Even though I know I could have done better, I can't help myself. The first thought that crossed my mind upon waking up and not seeing you was that you had abandoned me once more, and that I would never be able to find you again."

His comments made my heart tighten, the anguish in his voice a clear reminder of the wounds from our chaotic past that were still there. "You didn't do anything that would make me want to leave you, though," I assured, my voice warm with comfort.

Logan, however, shook his head, the ghosts of his previous mistakes haunting his gaze. "That isn't entirely true," he said, his voice tinged with remorse. "I literally forced you to move in with me."

"Logan, where did you get that idea?" I yelled, my frustration pouring up from underneath. "I moved in with you because I wanted to." I wasn't forced by you. There was nothing in the world you could have done to make me stay here with you if that was not my desire."

His remarks were a sharp reminder of the uncertainties that yet existed between us. But despite the doubts that dogged our relationship, I refused to allow them to obscure the reality—I had consciously chosen not to split with him.

"It's my decision," I said, maintaining a steady tone despite the internal conflict I was experiencing. "I know at first I wasn’t keen about moving in with you, but I had my reasons."

Reasons that, as much as I wanted him to understand, I just couldn't bring myself to tell him.

Logan's demeanour, however, was defiantly firm, his eyes focused on some intangible point off in the distance. "That's what you're telling yourself," he shot back, his tone laced with resentment. "However, we both know that if I had shown up for work both yesterday and today, this wouldn't have occurred. You decided to move in with me out of pity."

His accusation hit me like a physical blow, the weight of his words threatening to crush me beneath their weight. How could he even suggest such a thing? Didn't he understand that my decision to be with him was born out of love, not pity?

"What the hell, Logan?!" I exclaimed, my voice rising in frustration. "I would never do something for you—or for me, or for us—out of pity. I decided to move in with you because I finally understood that if our relationship can be fixed, this is the first step I had to take. You had already made the first move by asking me, and what I had to do was to meet you halfway."

"But it doesn’t feel like that to me or Leo."

Confusion clouded my mind as I struggled to understand what he meant. "What are you talking about, Logan?" I demanded, my heart pounding in my chest.