9. Chapter
1069 Words
Night had long since settled completely over the camp, a darkness so dense it swallowed even the faint light filtering between the treetops. The fire had burned down to embers; only a few glowing coals flickered weakly in the ash, as if the forest itself wanted to lull them to sleep. The men were sunk in deep rest, only the occasional sound of a sentry shifting breaking the stillness.
I, however, lay awake in my tent.
My body wanted rest, but my mind was still circling the image of the girl by the fire: her trembling fingers, the silent tears, the way she ate without sound. And the word my wolf had whispered kept echoing inside me:
Lyra.
My beloved.
The one who flinches even when I draw breath near her.
Sleep was just beginning to claim me when I heard it.
It wasn’t loud.
It wasn’t a scream.
It wasn’t a cry for help.
It was a thin, weak whimper. The kind only someone hears who is listening for it. Or who is paying far too close attention.
My body tensed instantly. My wolf snapped to attention. And I was already moving.
I yanked aside the tent flap and stepped into the cold. The air was sharp, biting, but panic burned hot through me despite it. The camp remained silent; no one else had heard the sound. But I had.
I knew exactly where it came from.
Her tent.
I moved quickly, not caring about the soft crack of twigs beneath my boots. By the time I reached it, the whimper came again—this time stronger, edged with a sharp pain that stabbed straight into my chest.
I pulled back the tent entrance.
The sight hit me like a fist.
Elariana lay curled beneath her blanket, her body shaking from cold or fever—it was hard to tell. Strands of hair clung messily to her face, her lips pale and cracked, and she cried softly in her sleep, her voice barely more than breath.
Her skin burned red with inflammation at her collarbone—right where Kian had branded the chain into her flesh.
The wound.
The one I hadn’t touched.
Hadn’t cleaned.
Had allowed to hurt.
That wretched bandage had torn yesterday… but the deeper damage burned into her body had never been treated.
My wolf howled inside me.
Not with sound—with feeling. Pure, feral rage. And something even stronger than my anger:
fear for her.
I dropped to my knees beside her and carefully placed my hand on her forehead.
It was hot.
Not warm—burning.
The fever was so high her skin trembled beneath my palm.
“Damn it…” I hissed, too softly for her to hear.
I tried to gently pull the blanket down, but she flinched violently and whimpered in a panicked, fevered voice:
“No… please… don’t… don’t take me back… please…”
My blood froze.
She wasn’t reacting to me. She didn’t hear my voice. The fever had dragged her back somewhere else—to where she had been a prisoner. To where every touch meant pain.
My chest clenched painfully.
“Hey, Lyra…” I whispered, barely louder than air, as if any stronger sound might shatter her. “You’re not there. You’re with me. No one is taking you back.”
My voice was deep, but I forced it soft, careful. It wasn’t perfect. Alpha tone is too powerful to fully hide.
Still… she seemed to relax for a moment.
As if the name—the wolf’s call—cut through the fog of fever.
Slowly, very slowly, I peeled the blanket down to her shoulders.
The sight made even my stomach tighten.
From her collarbone down across the upper curve of her chest, her skin was red, swollen, inflamed. The wound’s edges were puffed and angry. The infection was deep and ugly. Every breath hurt her.
That was why she was shaking.
That was why the fever had taken hold.
I wanted to kill Kian.
Not quickly.
Not cleanly.
Slowly. Methodically. With a pain even his wolf wouldn’t survive.
She whimpered again, her voice full of agony.
“No… please… I didn’t mean to… I’ll behave…”
My heart skipped painfully.
That plea.
That voice.
It was like a blade carving into my chest.
I leaned closer and gently rested my hand against her cheek—not as an assertion, not a grip—just so she could feel that I was there. My presence. My shadow. My scent.
My wolf’s growl softened. Watching. As if it knew our mate was collapsing in our arms.
“You don’t need to behave,” I said quietly. “Just breathe. I’m here. No one is hurting you.”
Slowly, she opened her eyes.
She wasn’t lucid. Her gaze drifted, pupils wide, unfocused, as if she were looking straight through me. But when she heard my voice, something inside her settled.
She may not have known who I was.
She may not have understood the words.
But she felt the wolf.
My body burned with rage, fear, instinct—and still I had to touch her as if she were glass, ready to shatter at any moment.
I carefully lifted her head and slid my hand beneath her neck so it wouldn’t strain. Her skin was scorching, slick with sweat. She trembled as if she were starving.
And then it hit me.
She wouldn’t survive the night if I didn’t treat the wound.
There was no time to wait. No permission to ask. She wasn’t in a state to give it.
“You’re staying with me, Lyra…” I whispered. “I won’t let you go.”
My wolf screamed inside me—not in threat.
In fear.
In desperation.
I stood and burst out of the tent.
“Someone bring water!” I snarled at the first guard I saw. “Hot. And clean cloth. Now!”
My voice cut like snapping ice. The soldier took off running instantly.
The next words I spoke as I headed for my own tent, fueled by an instinct so fierce it raised goosebumps along my skin:
“She’s not dying. Not my Lyra.”
And that sentence…
That feeling…
That realization…
It was more terrifying than anything before.
Because there was no turning back.
No denial.
And no force in this world that would stop me now.
- Writer
