House BlackWing: Awakening

Chapter Thirteen

The guards and I had just finished clearing the last of the breakables from my quarters when a knock came at the door.

“Sir, are you expecting company?” one asked.

I wasn’t. Both men shifted instantly, sliding to either side of the frame, hands brushing their sidearms. Trust wasn’t in their job description.

“Enter,” I called.

Relief hit when Jenny stepped through—the same submissive who’d served me my first night on the Homeworld. A familiar face, a safe presence. The guards eased and went back to their work. Jenny dropped quickly to her knees, braid slipping over her shoulder. “Sir Wildcard, I have orders from Sir Harry, the Senior Doctor, to bring you to the infirmary at once. And before you ask, Sir, I don’t know why.” Her tone was steady, but her eyes flicked down too quickly.

That gave me pause. Gabriella had told me about him: part High Master, part ship’s doctor, answerable to no one where health or abuse was concerned. By his word, the lowest scullery worker could be pulled from duty—or Lord Raven himself from his throne. His authority stood apart. And now he wanted to see me. At once. You’re damn right I ran.

The House changed as we moved. Jenny’s steps were quick and light, but her fingers twisted together. The polished stone gave way to older slabs carved with centuries of passage. Incense thinned into the sharper tang of boiled linen and dried herbs. Glowpanels buzzed faintly overhead, their light too clean, too sharp. This wing wasn’t about ceremony. It was about judgment.

The infirmary’s waiting chamber opened like a chapel stripped of pomp. Long benches smoothed by generations lined the walls. Oil lamps glowed in corners, but ceiling panels drowned them in white clarity. A single BlackWing banner hung behind the desk, flanked by two wide screens scrolling queues in House script. The room was far from empty. A guard sat with his boot off, ankle bandaged, jaw tight as a monitor above him mapped swelling in pale green. Across the benches, a submissive with a wrapped wrist twisted her fingers, eyes fixed on the pulsing graphs overhead as if numbers could calm her better than the nurse who had set the bones. At the far end, an attendant rocked a fevered child, whispering lullabies while a red glow on the wall charted the boy’s rising temperature. Rank, collar, uniform—none of it mattered here. Pain leveled them all.

Gabriella sat hunched forward, elbows on her knees, hands clenched white. Her eyes met mine and held, long enough to make her worry plain, then dropped again. She didn’t rise. She couldn’t. At the desk, a submissive in an emerald collar paused mid-stroke, stylus frozen over a ledger half parchment, half glowing slate. Her green eyes lifted with cool disdain. “Are you the Master of the submissive known as Ciara, Sir?”

“I have that honor,” I said.

“Sir Harry will see you at once, Sir.” She clipped the word until it cut. Another nurse appeared, twisting her apron hem. She stayed angled toward me, careful never to turn her back. “Would you please come with me…sir?”

What in hell was going on?

The corridor beyond was lined with narrow doors, each marked with glowing sigils. One stood ajar: inside, a submissive lay while a nurse wound fresh linen around cracked ribs. The wall projected a translucent scan of her chest, bones knitting in green light. Two doors down, a boy no older than ten slept under a thin blanket, fever monitored by a pulsing chime. This wasn’t just treatment—it was oversight. Two burly orderlies in green collars waited at the door I was led to. They didn’t move, didn’t speak. They didn’t need to. Bumfuzzled—that was my grandfather’s word. He’d have liked this mess.

The examination chamber was bright, too bright. Unlike the waiting area, this space wasn’t neat. It was an organized mess—order buried in chaos. Shelves crowded with jars, some neatly labeled, others scrawled over in haste. A scalpel sat beside a teacup still steaming. Slates leaned against glass, glowing faintly beneath parchment pinned with crooked clips. Notes layered on notes. To me it was clutter. To Harry, I suspected, it was a system only he understood.

The air smelled of antiseptic and sage, with undertones of metal, ink, and faint tea. Scratches marked the floor where stools had dragged, and the exam table bore dents from fists or grips too tight. Not sterile. Not perfect. But lived in. Ciara sat on that table in a thin gown, bare feet dangling. Her folded clothes and collar waited on a chair beside her like accusations. She looked up at me once, gave a fragile smile, then dropped her eyes. Her fingers knotted the fabric in her lap until her shoulders shook.

I moved, but the nurse barred me with one raised hand. “Sir, please take a seat.” The door stayed open. The orderlies leaned in. Ciara kept her gaze down, rubbing her palms against her thighs. I sat, rigid, forcing my breath steady. Moments later, a tall man entered. Broad-shouldered, grey hair brushed back, posture balanced between calm and command. His face was lined with years, but his smile lit the room—steady, disarming, and at odds with the sharpness in his eyes. This was Sir Harry. The Senior Doctor. The one even Raven deferred to when truth was at stake.

He didn’t tidy a thing as he moved through the chamber. Didn’t need to. He touched jars, tapped a slate awake, shifted a scalpel half an inch like it had been waiting for him. “Thank you,” he told the nurse. “That will be all. I’ll call if I need anything else.” She hesitated, then slipped out. The door stayed ajar. Harry’s smile stayed as he fixed me with his gaze. “You’re from Earth, correct?”

I nodded.

“Been there myself,” he said. “Studied laser surgery. Picked up a saying there too. One that fits here better than anywhere: give your heart and soul to the Lord, boy—because your ass belongs to me.”

The smile stayed. The steel didn’t.

“Excuse me, Sir Harry?”

“I’ll give you one chance to explain. Fail, and I’ll have you dragged into the square and whipped. Am I clear, boy?”

My first instinct was to stand, to tell him no one on this world—or mine—called me boy. But pride wouldn’t save me here. Restraint might. “All right, Sir Harry. What’s the problem?”

“As if you don’t know.” He pulled Ciara’s gown from her shoulders. She flinched but didn’t resist. The wall display spiked red with her pulse. Her skin was a map of pain—scars on scars, welts fresh and fading, wounds old and new. Rage surged behind my ribs, hot and alive. And Harry thought it was mine.

“I didn’t do this to her,” I said slowly. “I couldn’t.”

His smile thinned. “Boy, you’re five seconds from that whip. She told my nurse her Master did this. You told my nurse you were her Master. Doesn’t leave much room to wriggle, does it, boy?”

Ciara snapped her head up, eyes fierce through tears. “Sir Harry, please! May I speak? You told me to be still, Sir, but I cannot! You accuse the wrong man! He is NOT the Master I spoke of!”

“Let her speak, Sir,” I said. “She’ll confirm it.”

Harry’s smile flickered into something more like a challenge. “Very well. But it had better be good.”

Her hands shook in her lap. Lips parted, but only a jagged breath came—like it hurt to even start. Tears streaked down as she forced her chin up. “Every mark,” she whispered. “Every one has a story.” Her hand drifted to her collarbone. “This one. Cane. Not because I disobeyed—because Lord Kael woke in a mood. I learned moods killed faster than mistakes.”

She pressed her knuckles white into her knees. “These—” she shifted her shoulders, showing faint ridges “—the whip. Days at a time. Until I bled, until I passed out. If I came to too quickly, he threw water on me and began again.” She turned, revealing the burned lattice across her back. “Here—branding iron. Not punishment. Ownership. He said pain was the only language worth carving into flesh. I learned not to scream. Screams gave him pleasure.”

Her chest hitched. She raised her arm, tracing the crooked ridge on her forearm. “Bone. Broken twice. Set badly because their healer didn’t care. I begged for clean bandages. He laughed. Said filth builds character.”

Her voice collapsed. She pressed both hands to her face and sobbed. When she lowered them, her eyes locked on Harry’s, blazing through tears. “He left me like this. Scar on scar. Wound on wound. Years of it. And when I was too broken to be of use, he discarded me—threw me away like trash. To him, I was already dead. To his House, I was less than dead. Black Disked. Forgotten.”

Her gaze shifted to me. “But I’m still here. I survived him. Every lash, every fire, every broken bone—I survived. And if you doubt me, Sir, then look at me now and know: I would not beg this man’s protection if he had ever laid a hand like that on me.”

Her chest rose in ragged pulls. She closed her eyes, shaking her head faintly. “There’s more,” she whispered. “So much more. But I think… that’s enough for now, don’t you, Doctor?”

Harry’s smile softened, but the steel in his eyes didn’t. He stepped closer, resting one hand lightly on the table beside her. Not touching—just steady. “You’ve said more than most could bear,” he told her gently. “And you said it standing. That alone speaks louder than the scars.” His voice dropped. “Survivors don’t owe anyone their whole story in a single day. You’ve given enough. More than enough. The rest can wait until you’re ready.”

For the first time, Ciara let out a breath that wasn’t ragged but almost… relieved. My chest tightened. I wanted to reach for her, to swear she’d never face another hand like Kael’s. But I stayed still, jaw locked, nails biting my palms. She didn’t need a vow right then. She needed space to breathe. Harry had given her that. I caught his eye, gave the smallest nod. Respect. Gratitude. We were on the same side.

Harry glanced at the scars once more, then the monitor still spiking red. “Some of these wounds are months old. Perhaps years. Were you ever given a healer?”

“Yes, Sir Harry,” she sobbed. “The Senior Doctor of the House of Vaskra. I often displeased Lord Kael”—her lips curled around the name—“and required his…skills.”

“Skills?” Harry snorted. “I’ve seen first-year med students with a steadier hand. And you call this healing?”

“Can you help her?” My voice cracked despite me.

“Given time,” he said. “Long treatment. Therapy. This won’t heal overnight.” He reached behind three jars, plucked a vial without looking, scribbled across a slate, then looked at her again. “I’ll schedule appointments. And you will keep them, young lady. I still have that horse whip, you know.”

His smile softened the words into law.

“Yes, Sir Harry,” Ciara whispered, lowering her head. A flicker of a smile trembled through her tears.

Harry turned to me. His tone dropped, the weight of it pressing into the room. “Sir Wildcard… I owe you an apology.”

The words landed like stone. From a man whose authority could topple Lords, the admission carried more weight than any sentence he could have passed. “Few things test me like seeing a submissive abused. And this—” he gestured at her scars “—is the worst I’ve seen in years within this House.”

“Not a problem, Sir.” My hands flexed against my knees. “It’s one of my hot spots too.”

His fuller smile returned. “I’ll attend to the paperwork. Ciara, you may dress. Sir Wildcard, I ask that you restrict any discipline to a light switch or flogger. Is that acceptable?”

He’d stopped saying “boy.” That was a good sign.

“I haven’t needed even that much, Sir Harry,” I said. “No problem.”

“Excellent.” He straightened a crooked slate with one finger. “Excuse me a moment.”

He left. The orderlies outside no longer leaned in.

Ciara’s hands fumbled with her clothes, missing buttons twice. As she stepped off the table, the sensors fell quiet, the screen fading to gray like it had never recorded her at all.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked softly.

She froze. Then turned. Her eyes were wide, raw. She stumbled forward and pressed her face into my chest, clutching my shirt like it was the only thing holding her up.

“I didn’t tell you… because I thought you’d leave me.” Her voice shook, words tearing loose. “You deserve someone whole. Not—” she broke off, breath catching—“not someone like me.” Her hands twisted tighter into my shirt. “I’m scarred,” she whispered. Pause. “I’m… used up.” Another pause, harder. “I’m broken. In more ways than I can count.”

Her shoulders trembled, but she forced the rest. “To Kael, I was already dead. To his House, I was nothing. And I thought… if you knew all of it, you’d see me the same way.” Her breath came in gasps, words spilling between sobs. “But I don’t want to be nothing anymore.” She pressed her forehead into me. “I don’t want to be thrown away again.”

The last words bled out. “If you’ll have me—even just for today—I’ll give you everything I have left. It isn’t much… but it’s me.”

Her body shook against me. I held her close, stroking her hair, steadying my breath so she could borrow it. And inside, the vow set like iron.

Somehow, some way, I was going to make Kael pay. And that bastard will still be breathing when I do.