Alaric's crimson eyes slowly faded back to their usual deep black as he met Astrid's gaze. A lump formed in his throat, rendering him momentarily speechless. He had no idea what had taken over him, but when he saw the werewolves daring to attack, an uncontrollable surge of killing intent had consumed him. Instinctively, he had done what he did best—ripping out their hearts, letting them drown in the agony of their foolishness for even thinking of touching what was his.
But now, regret started to settle in—not for killing them, but for doing so in front of her. He was certain she was afraid of him. The rapid, erratic beat of her heart confirmed it. His fingers curled into fists as he averted his gaze, his voice calm but strained.
"Are you... all alright?" he asked, his voice softer and cracked.
There was a beat of silence before Astrid answered. "Yes."
Alaric gave a curt nod. "Good. That's good."
