POV: Ravenna
I wasn't supposed to be here.
Father had ordered me to my chambers. "Rest," he'd said, like I was some delicate flower about to wilt. "You've had a shock."
A shock. As if watching an arrow meant for my heart punch into someone else's shoulder was just a shock. As if the blood—so much blood—was something I'd just shake off after a good night's sleep.
Except I couldn't sleep.
I'd tried. I'd gone to my chambers like a good little princess, let Morgana fuss over me, let the servants draw a bath. I'd sat in that bath until the water went cold, staring at nothing, feeling the phantom heat of where Theron had touched my hands. Steadying them. Even as he bled.
"You're shaking," he'd said.
Of course I was shaking. Someone had just tried to KILL me.
And he'd smiled. Smiled. While bleeding.
So no, I couldn't sleep.
Which was how I found myself sneaking through the palace corridors at gods-know-what hour, heading toward the healing wing.
The guards didn't stop me. Probably because I was princess, or possibly because I looked deranged enough that they didn't want to risk it. My hair was loose—I never wore it loose in public—and I was in my night clothes with just a robe thrown over. Hardly proper.
I didn't care.
The healing wing smelled like herbs and something sharper. Antiseptic maybe. It made my nose wrinkle. I'd never been here before. Princesses didn't visit healing wings. We had healers come to us.
But I wasn't here as a princess. I didn't know what I was here as.
A nurse tried to stop me at the entrance. "Princess, you shouldn't—"
"Where is he?"
"The warrior? He's resting, and Healer Lysander said no visitors—"
"I'm not a visitor. I'm the reason he's here." My voice came out sharp. Imperious. The tone I used when I wanted something and wouldn't take no for an answer. "Show me. Now."
She hesitated. Then sighed and led me down a corridor.
We stopped at a door. She opened it quietly, gestured inside, and left without another word.
The room was small. Dark except for a single candle by the bed. And in that bed—
Theron.
Unconscious. Pale. Bandages wrapped around his shoulder and across his chest. His breathing was shallow but steady. Alive.
He was alive.
Something in my chest unclenched. I hadn't realized how tightly I'd been holding my breath until it all came out at once.
I moved into the room like I was walking through water. Everything felt slow. Strange. The chair beside his bed creaked when I sat down, and I winced, afraid I'd wake him.
He didn't stir.
I looked at him. Really looked. Without the distraction of that amber gaze, without the hum drowning out my thoughts, I could just... see him.
The scar cutting through his face. Up close, it was worse than I'd thought. Ragged. Like whatever had cut him had wanted to take more than flesh. His jaw was strong, stubborn. Grey in his hair at the temples—he was only thirty-one, too young for that. What had aged him?
My eyes drifted to the bandages. To the blood seeping through in one spot.
He'd taken an arrow for me.
I didn't understand it. Didn't understand why he'd moved, why he'd thrown himself in front of me, why he'd—
"You're supposed to be resting."
I jumped. Spun in my chair.
A man stood in the doorway. Hadrian again. He stepped inside, closed the door. He pulled up another chair, sat down heavily. Looked at Theron with something soft in his expression.
I wanted to argue. To deny it. To throw something.
Instead, I said, "Why didn't you tell him about sabotage?"
"Because he doesn't need to know that the woman his dragon chose for him was going to treat him badly." Hadrian's voice was flat. Hard. "He's got enough rejection in his life. Doesn't need more."
Rejection. That word again.
"The five rejections," I said quietly. "What are they?"
Hadrian looked at me for a long moment. "You really don't know?"
"No."
"And you want to?"
"I—" Did I? Did I want to know what had broken this man so thoroughly he expected pain? "Yes."
Hadrian leaned back. Crossed his arms. Looked at Theron like he was seeing ghosts.
"First was Erika," he said. "She was a merchant's daughter."
My stomach twisted.
"Second was Mira. Two years later. He'd just earned his scars—saved her village from raiders. Got that thing on his face doing it." He gestured vaguely at Theron's scar. "Said she couldn't look at him."
Oh gods.
"Third was Senna. Noble lady.'"
I was gripping the arms of my chair so hard my knuckles were white.
"Fourth was Cora. Soldier's widow. Strong woman."
"And the fifth?" My voice barely worked.
Hadrian's jaw tightened. "Isla. Two years ago. Baker's daughter. She married someone else within three months."
"And he—"
"Nearly died." Hadrian's voice went rough. "The fifth rejection almost killed him. I found him unconscious in his chambers. Barely breathing. Havoc was—" He stopped. Swallowed hard. "The dragon wouldn't let him go. Kept him alive through sheer rage. It took days before he woke up. Weeks before he could stand."
I stared at Theron's unconscious face. Tried to imagine the pain. Five times. Five bonds formed and shattered. Five pieces of his soul torn away.
Most people died after two.
"He shouldn't be alive," Hadrian said quietly. "No one survives five rejections. But Theron's too stubborn to die. Or too stupid. Probably both."
"Why did he enter the competition?" The question came out as a whisper.
"You'd have to ask him."
"I'm asking you."
Hadrian looked at me. Like he was weighing whether I deserved the answer.
"Hope," he finally said. "Stupid, foolish hope. Because even after five rejections, some part of him still believed he might find someone who wouldn't turn away."
The hum between us—mine and Theron's—pulsed. Like a heartbeat. Constant. Undeniable.
"And then he walked into that throne room and the bond formed," I said. "With me."
"With you," Hadrian agreed. "With the princess who's been planning to destroy every candidate. Including him."
Guilt crashed over me like a wave. "I didn't know—"
"Doesn't matter what you knew. Matters what you do now." He stood. Looked down at me with those cold eyes that weren't quite as cold as before. "So whatever game you're playing, whatever tantrum you're throwing because Daddy said you have to marry—either stop it, or stay away from him."
He left without waiting for a response.
I sat in the silence. Watched Theron breathe. Felt the hum singing between us.
Five women who'd looked at him and decided he wasn't enough.
And I'd been planning to make it six.
"I'm sorry," I whispered to his unconscious form. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so—"
My voice broke. Tears spilled over. I pressed my hands to my face, trying to muffle the sobs, trying to be quiet, but I couldn't stop.
I'd been so selfish. So focused on what I wanted, what I didn't want, that I hadn't thought about—
About the fact that the candidates weren't just obstacles. They were people. With histories and pain and hearts that could break.
And this man—this scarred, silent, broken man—had taken an arrow for me.
I don't know how long I cried. Long enough that my eyes burned and my throat ached. Long enough that the candle burned lower.
Eventually, I wiped my face. Looked at him again.
He was still pale. Still unconscious and still breathing.
I reached out slowly. Hesitated. Then let my fingers brush his hand where it lay on top of the blanket.
The hum intensified. Warmth spread from the contact. His hand was rough. Calloused. The hand of a man who'd fought for everything he had.
"I won't," I whispered. "I won't be another person who hurts you. I promise."
He didn't wake. Didn't respond.
But somehow, I felt like he heard me anyway.
I pulled my hand back. Started to stand.
"Stay."
I froze. Looked down. His eyes were open. Amber and gold and exhausted. Looking right at me.
"You're awake," I breathed.
"Yes."
"You almost died. The arrow was meant for me. Why did you—" I couldn't finish. Couldn't ask why he'd done it.
He just looked at me. Like the answer was obvious.
Because of the bond. Because Havoc recognized Solace. Because some stupid, foolish part of him still hoped.
"You should rest," I said.
"You should too."
"I can't."
"Neither can I." His voice was rough. Tired. But there was something in it—something warm—that made my chest tight. "Stay. Please."
I should have said no. Should have left. Should have done anything except sink back into that chair and take his hand again.
But I didn't.
I stayed.
And somewhere around dawn, with his hand in mine and the hum singing between us, I finally fell asleep.