“Well, this is fancy,” she says as I push open the door to what’s clearly the VIP section of this medieval shitshow. “Secret wing? Hidden chambers? What’s next, a drawbridge?”
I almost smile. Almost. Because even after everything—the poison, the bond, the casual murder spree I just committed—she’s still throwing out smartass comments like it’s her day job.
The room’s the polar opposite of where they kept her. Clean bed, actual rugs, fire that doesn’t smell like despair and broken dreams. Basically luxury living for someone who’s been sleeping on stone for weeks.
I set her on the edge of the bed like she might shatter if I move too fast. Which, honestly, she might. Then I kneel in front of her because someone needs to deal with the damage those bastards did, and apparently I’m volunteering.
“You don’t have to—” she starts.
I’m already reaching for the basin of water, dipping a cloth. When it touches the bruise on her arm, she hisses through her teeth.
“Did I hurt you?” My hand freezes. Because the bond’s making me hypersensitive to every sound she makes, every shift in her breathing.
“No, you’re fine. It’s just—” She gestures at her general existence. “Everything hurts right now.”
I go slower after that, cleaning each cut like I’m defusing a bomb instead of playing nursemaid. Rewrapping her wrists with strips torn from my own shirt, which is both practical and stupidly romantic in a way that would probably make me cringe if I wasn’t so focused on the task.
The silence is getting heavy, charged with all the shit we’re not saying.
“This is awkward,” she breaks it.
“Is it?”
“Little bit. You’re over there playing nurse, and I’m sitting here wondering why you didn’t just leave me in that cell to rot.”
My hands still. “Why would I do that?”
She shrugs like the answer’s obvious. “Because I tried to murder you? Because I’m an Omega with zero political value? Take your pick.”
I look up at her then, and something in my chest cracks open. Raw. Honest.
“Because no one did it for me.”
The words hit the air between us like a confession I never meant to make.
“What?”
“When they hurt me. When I bled. When I—” I stop, jaw working around words that taste like glass. “No one ever…”
“Jesus Christ.” She reaches out without thinking, fingers brushing my cheek like I’m something worth touching instead of the monster everyone warns their kids about. “How old were you?”
“Does it matter?”
“Yeah, it fucking matters.”
I lean into her touch just slightly, because when’s the last time someone touched me without flinching? “Too young.”
Her chest goes tight. I can feel it through the bond. “I would’ve. If I’d known you then. I would’ve tried.”
I nod once, throat working around words I can’t say. Because what do you say to someone who offers retroactive kindness for wounds that never properly healed?
We sit like that for a while, me holding her bandaged wrist, her trying not to think about some kid version of me bleeding alone somewhere. The bond hums between us, translating emotions neither of us has words for.
“Is the bond real?” she asks finally, because we might as well address the elephant that’s taken up permanent residence in the room.
My shoulders tense. “Do you want it to be?”
“I asked you first.”
“I felt it the second your hand touched my chest,” I say quietly. “And again when you called me back.”
“Called you back from what?”
“The poison. The fight. The edge of not giving a shit if I lived or died.” I meet her eyes. “Then I felt you screaming inside me, and suddenly dying wasn’t an option anymore.”
“I didn’t know I was doing that.”
“You reached across the bond like you’d been doing it your whole life.”
She touches my jaw again, just to see what happens.
The world tilts sideways.
Warmth floods through me—not just heat, but actual healing. Like someone hit the reset button on every damaged piece of my nervous system. The ache in my ribs fades. Cuts seal. The constant background noise of pain that’s been my soundtrack for years just… stops.
“Holy shit,” she breathes. “Did you feel that?”
Instead of answering, I press my forehead against hers. My hand finds her waist, thumb tracing small circles that make the bond hum with something dangerously close to contentment. Something I haven’t felt since I was too young to know better.
“I don’t understand how this is real,” she whispers.
“Neither do I,” I say. “But I know I’d burn the world to keep it.”
That’s when she starts crying.
Not pretty tears. The ugly, soul-deep kind that feel like they’ve been building for weeks. She presses her hand over her mouth, trying to hold it in, but it’s useless.
“Fuck,” she chokes out. “I’m sorry, I don’t know why—”
“Don’t.” I pull her against my chest, one hand cradling the back of her head. “You don’t have to apologize for breaking.”
She grips my shirt like it’s the only thing keeping her anchored to reality. “This is so fucked up. A week ago I was trying to kill you, and now—”
“Now you’re stuck with me.” I press my lips against her hair. “No more cages. No more chains.”
“What if someone tries to take me back?”
My arms tighten around her. The wolf in my chest stirs, all teeth and protective rage.
“Then I’ll kill them.”