POV: Ravenna
Lysander finished wrapping my arm in fresh bandages. The wound was clean now. Deep but clean. He'd used water magic to close the worst of it, but healing dragon injuries took time. Especially when the dragon half—Solace—was still wounded too.
"Rest," Lysander ordered. "Sleep if you can. Your body needs to heal."
"I will."
"Princess—"
"I said I will." After I see him. After I make sure he's okay. After I do what I should have done immediately instead of letting Hadrian take him away alone.
Lysander sighed but didn't argue. He'd known me long enough to recognize when I'd made up my mind.
Morgana appeared with clean clothes. A simple dress. Nothing fancy. Nothing that screamed princess. Just soft fabric that wouldn't irritate my bandaged arm.
"You're going to him," she said. Not a question.
"Yes."
"You should rest."
"So everyone keeps telling me."
"Rav." She caught my uninjured hand. "You almost died today. You're wounded. You're exhausted. And Theron... he's not in a good place right now. Maybe giving him space—"
"Space is the last thing he needs." I pulled my hand free gently. "He's spent his entire life being given space. Being left alone with his pain. I'm not doing that to him."
"He killed someone today. Brutally."
"To save me."
"That doesn't change what he did. What he feels about it." Morgana's voice was soft. Sad. "Sometimes people need time to process trauma alone."
"Maybe." I finished fastening the dress. "But he's had enough time alone. Five rejections worth of time. I'm not adding to that."
She looked at me for a long moment. Then nodded. "You've really fallen for him, haven't you?"
"Yes." The word came out steady. Sure. "I have."
"Then go." She squeezed my shoulder. "But be careful. Men who've just discovered they're capable of that kind of violence... they don't always think clearly."
I knew what she meant. Knew she was worried Theron might hurt himself. Might decide he was too dangerous. Too broken. Might push me away to protect me from himself.
I wouldn't let him.
Theron's quarters were in the warriors' wing. I'd never been there before. The hallways were narrower than in the royal wing. Stone instead of marble. Functional instead of beautiful.
Two guards stood outside his door. They straightened when they saw me approaching.
"Princess," one said. "The king ordered that Theron not be disturbed—"
"The king ordered that he not be a prisoner," I corrected. "That means I can see him. Unless you want to physically stop me?"
They exchanged glances. Neither looked eager to manhandle the princess.
"Let her in," a voice said from inside. Hadrian.
The guards stepped aside. I pushed open the door.
The room was small. A bed, a trunk, a single window. Sparse. Almost empty. Like Theron hadn't let himself believe he'd be staying long enough to need more.
He sat on the floor against the far wall, knees drawn up, head down. Still wearing the blood-soaked clothes from the arena. His dark hair was matted with dried blood. His hands were clean now—someone must have made him wash them—but I could see him staring at his palms like he still saw red.
Hadrian sat nearby in a chair he'd pulled close. Keeping watch. Making sure Theron didn't do anything stupid.
He looked relieved when I entered.
"Thank the gods," Hadrian said quietly. "He hasn't spoken since we left the arena. Won't eat. Won't change clothes. Just sits there."
I crossed the small room and lowered myself to the floor beside Theron. My arm protested but I ignored it.
"Has he slept?" I asked Hadrian.
"No."
"Eaten anything?"
"I tried. He won't touch it."
I looked at Theron's profile. His jaw was clenched. His eyes fixed on nothing. Lost somewhere inside his own head where the memories played on repeat.
"Theron," I said softly. "It's me. Ravenna."
No response. Not even a flicker of recognition.
I reached for his hand. Wrapped my fingers around his. His skin was cold. Too cold.
"I'm going to sit here," I told him. "I'm not leaving. You don't have to talk. You don't have to do anything. But I'm staying."
Hadrian stood quietly. "I'll be right outside if you need me, Princess."
"Thank you. For taking care of him."
"He's my brother in all but blood." Hadrian's voice was rough. "I'd do anything for him. But right now... I think you're what he needs more than me."
He left, closing the door softly behind him.
The room was silent except for our breathing. Mine steady. His too fast. Shallow. Like he couldn't quite catch his breath.
I didn't try to make him talk. Didn't fill the silence with meaningless reassurances. Just sat beside him, holding his hand, my shoulder pressed against his.
Time passed. I didn't count the minutes. Didn't matter how long it took.
The light from the window shifted. Afternoon sun fading toward evening. Shadows growing longer.
Finally, Theron spoke.
"I killed him." His voice was barely audible. Broken. "I was conscious the whole time. Berserker rage doesn't make you unconscious. It just... strips away everything except instinct. But you're still there. Still watching. Still feeling."
I squeezed his hand. Didn't interrupt.
"I felt his bones break under my jaws," Theron continued. His voice was hollow. Haunted. "Felt his blood in my mouth. Heard him scream. Felt him stop struggling. And I couldn't stop. Couldn't make myself stop even when I knew he was dead. The rage just... kept going."
"Theron—"
"I tore him apart while knowing exactly what I was doing." He finally looked at me. His amber eyes were red. Tear tracks cut through the dried blood on his face. "How do I live with that? How do I look at you knowing what these hands did?"
"The same way I look at you." I brought his hand to my lips. Kissed his knuckles. "With gratitude. With... with love. Because you saved me. Lucien attacked Solace. Attacked your MATE. You responded the only way a bonded dragon can respond."
"It was too much. What I did to him—"
"Was what happens when someone breaks the most sacred law." My voice was fierce now. "You didn't choose berserker rage. It chose you. Your dragon took over to protect his mate. That's not murder, Theron. That's biology. That's instinct older than kingdoms."
"His sister's screaming—" His voice broke completely. "I'll hear that forever."
"I know." I shifted closer, wrapped my uninjured arm around him. "I know. And I'm sorry. But Lucien made his choice when he attacked Solace. He knew what would happen. He just didn't care."
"I should have controlled it better. Should have stopped once he was dead."
"You can't control berserker rage. That's why it's called rage. That's why it's feared." I pulled back enough to look at his face. "But you came back. When I called to you, when Solace touched you, you came back. Most berserkers don't. Most have to be killed to stop them. But you heard me and you came back."
He stared at me like I'd said something impossible.
"You're the strongest person I know," I said. "Not because you survived five rejections. Not because you're a skilled warrior. But because you're sitting here hating yourself for something you couldn't control instead of justifying it. Because you're broken by what you did even though it saved your mate's life."
"I don't feel strong." His voice was small. Childlike. "I feel like a monster."
"You're not." I cupped his face with my good hand. Forced him to meet my eyes. "You're not a monster. You're a man who went through something traumatic to save the person he loves. And I'm not going anywhere. I'm not leaving you. I'm not rejecting you."
"You should." Fresh tears tracked down his face. "You should reject me before I hurt you too. Before the rage takes over again and I can't come back."
"That won't happen."
"You don't know that."
"Yes, I do." I leaned my forehead against his. "Because I'll always call you back. Always. No matter what."
He broke then. Completely. A sob tore from his throat and suddenly he was clutching me, his face buried against my shoulder, his body shaking with grief and horror and guilt.
I held him. Ignored the pain in my wounded arm. Just wrapped both arms around him and held on while he fell apart.
"I've got you," I whispered. "I've got you. You're safe. We're safe."
He cried like he'd been holding it in for thirty-one years. Like every rejection, every scar, every moment of pain was pouring out all at once.
And I held him through all of it.
Because this—this—was what choosing someone meant. Not just the easy moments. Not just the romance and the bond and the heat between us.
But this. The broken moments. The trauma. The aftermath.
This was love. Real and raw and refusing to let go even when everything was terrible.
"I'm here," I kept saying. "I'm here. I'm not leaving. I promise."
Eventually his sobs quieted to ragged breathing. He didn't pull away. Just stayed pressed against me like I was the only solid thing in his world.
"We'll face whatever comes next together," I said. "The hearing. House Ashford's demands. All of it. Together."
"Together," he echoed. Like he was trying the word out. Testing if it could be real.
"Together," I confirmed. "Because I choose you, Theron. I chose you this morning before the fight. I chose you in the arena when I calmed your rage. And I'm choosing you now. Every version of you. Including the broken parts."
He lifted his head finally. Looked at me with red eyes and tear-stained cheeks and something that might have been hope.
"I don't deserve you," he whispered.
"You do." I kissed his forehead. "You just need to start believing it."