Chapter Fifteen
Iver
Excruciating pain sliced Iver’s mouth. It burned his gullet and pierced his abdomen, flares of hurt stabbing every part of him.
Iver floated—no, he was being carried, though he wasn’t sure where. There were people around him. William was there, of course, and a healer, he assumed. There were others, too, but he couldn’t be sure who they were. He was drifting in and out of consciousness.
Iver, in his earlier festive mood, had drunk too fast to realize something was wrong.
When he did, it had been too late. He’d gone through five long seconds of denial—he had not swallowed iron, it couldn’t be—before he had, coughing, realized the truth.
He had, somehow, managed not to succumb to panic.
They walked carefully as they carried him, trying to move him as little as possible, but the small, unavoidable bumps that came with every step stung like a knife to the gut. Iver grunted through it, which hurt too, William’s steady presence his only comfort.
Finally, he was deposited on a flat surface, and movement ceased. The pain did not lessen. It simply shifted from the pangs that shot through him with every step to a constant, searing pain that chewed its way through him. He heard Ailenor say she’d guard the entrance. A door shut.
“The king only had a mouthful of his drink,” the healer said, “but every single iron particle will burn through his stomach and then the rest of the inner organs if I don’t remove it.”
“How can you remove the iron?” William asked, his hand closing around Iver’s. “The particles were tiny. And he’s swallowed them… Do we need to make him vomit them up?”
“No,” the healer said, bustling through the room, “it’d cause more iron to travel up the esophagus and damage it and his mouth further.”
Iver opened his eyes, his hazy vision revealing what had to be Silverlight Castle’s infirmary.
Beside him sat William, his dark hair backlit by the glow of a lamp.
Concern puckered his brow, his eyes soft with sadness and affection.
“You’re awake.” With utmost gentleness, he lifted Iver’s hand and kissed his knuckles.
Their wedding marks glinted in the low light.
The healer came into view, holding a glass filled with a gray paste dotted with black particles, a spoon sticking out of it.
“This is magic-infused magnetite. I’ve put it in yogurt to make it easier to swallow.
The magnetite will attract the iron particles, lumping them into bigger chunks that are easier to remove. ”
Suspicion darkened William’s expression. “Prove it’s not iron.”
An unexpected warmth washed over Iver as shock and offense flashed across the healer’s face.
But then she recovered and spooned up a little of the yogurt and let it drip onto the back of her hand, where she smeared it.
The nurse offered the healer a clean cloth, which she used to wipe off the splodge. She showed them her unblemished skin.
William nodded. “I’m sorry. I had to be certain.”
“I understand.” The healer sat down by Iver’s side and offered him a spoonful of the magnetite-yogurt mixture.
He allowed her to feed it to him. It was like eating sand, the metal particles pricking his seared tongue. Water shot into his eyes. He forced himself to swallow the grainy texture, suppressing a scream as the it traveled down his raw gullet.
“The magnetite will work quickly,” the healer said. “It’ll attract any iron that has not yet burned through your mucosas.”
“What about the iron that has burned through?” William asked.
A spike of fear pricked Iver.
“It could have traveled into the lungs, the liver or another organ. There, it continues burning until it is removed. Any injury sustained through iron will heal no quicker than a wound to a human. And with the strength needed to keep the soulbond muted…” The healer shifted uncomfortably on her chair.
“Your Majesty, I strongly advise you to open the bond. It’ll free up your strength and magic to sustain you and help you through the operation. ”
“What operation?” William asked.
“To remove the iron, I must make an incision in the abdomen. It’s a high-risk surgery.
To be blunt, the chances of survival are poor.
” The healer looked at Iver. “They’re worse if your remaining power is focused on containing the bond.
However, without surgery, death is certain.
I’m going to give you something for the pain, but—I have to be honest—you’ll still be in agony.
If the bond were open, your husband could wrap you in his soul and alleviate your pain. It’d improve your chances of survival.”
Iver couldn’t do it. He might die of iron poisoning, but no death could be as painful as having his heart ripped out again.
No ache sat so deep, was so permanent, as that of a broken heart.
Iver had done his best to shield himself.
He’d chosen a husband who was powerful, attractive, but whom he couldn’t possibly fall in love with due to a lack of character.
But William, underneath his vices and insecurities, had character in spades.
Iver’s heart had been in danger all along.
He had, against his will, grown to like him. More than like him.
“Please,” William said, stroking a sweaty strand of hair from Iver’s brow, “let me be there for you. I know this will deepen our intimacy beyond what you want. But what good does a closed bond do you if you don’t survive this?”
But what if he did survive? It’d leave him with a fully blossomed bond, an unbreakable connection to William. He’d be wide open to pain of a much worse kind.
And if he died? If he opened the bond, his death would rip them apart, leaving William heartbroken until the day he, too, passed away. They said there was no pain worse than that of losing one’s soulmate, and Iver wanted to spare him that.
“No,” Iver rasped, and dejection fell across William’s face. Iver’s heart ached.
A low, pained moan came from the other side of the infirmary. The healer and the nurse rushed over. There was a short commotion during which a heavy object crashed to the floor. Then everything went silent.
“He’s dead,” the nurse said quietly.
At first, Iver didn’t understand, but then it dawned on him.
The cup-bearer. A pang of guilt struck him.
The man had served him well. He didn’t deserve to be a casualty of Silenia’s plot.
He’d been a common fae, possessing less magic than a high fae, let alone Iver, and he’d quickly succumbed to the iron.
Not wanting to disturb Iver’s injuries, the nurse cut him out of his jacket and shirt. Then she pulled a flask from one of the cabinets and handed it to the healer, who dribbled the clear liquid onto Iver’s tongue. “For the pain,” the healer explained.
The iron had burned away Iver’s sense of taste. He swallowed, his gullet stinging and throbbing. Nausea rose. He forced it down.
The nurse whispered the Lady’s prayer. Nobody in the healing profession wanted a king to die on their watch.
“Even with the pain reliever, you’ll suffer,” the healer said. “It’ll be excruciating, and you will buck and thrash, causing yourself further injury, which is why we need to tie you to the operating table.”
Iver didn’t like it, but he nodded once to give his consent.
The nurse closed a leather restraint around his throat, and despite knowing this needed to be done, that it was for his own good, repugnance rolled over him.
It took all his willpower to remain still and let it happen.
A pair of straps wrapped around his wrists, William never letting go of his hand.
Iver’s supernatural strength had left him. His magic had drained away. An hour ago, he could’ve freed himself if he needed to. Now, he was at other people’s mercy. Cold sweat slicked his body.
William squeezed his hand. “I won’t leave you. You’re not alone. Grip my hand as hard as you need to. I’ll be right here the entire time. I won’t stray from your side until you can walk under your own power again.”
Or until he was in the grave, Iver thought humorlessly.
His breath came in quick, shallow bursts, agony shooting through him.
He doubted the pain medication was working.
Not with the iron in his body. Getting cut by an iron blade was bad enough—a nasty, dangerous wound that could be lethal.
Ingesting iron was a whole other kind of peril.
Had a single fae survived iron poisoning?
The nurse bound his chest and hips, his thighs and ankles. The straps cut into his flesh, holding him secure. No escape. His fingers tingled where he held onto William.
“Bite down on this,” the healer said and placed a thick leather strap in his mouth.
The nurse wiped his stomach with a wet cloth, the sharp scent of alcohol stinging his nose.
“Scalpel,” the healer said, holding her hand out.
Black spots danced before Iver’s eyes. He drove his teeth into the leather strap, bracing against the pain.
“Look at me,” William said. “I’m here. I won’t let go of you.”
His gaze sought William’s. He’d need all his strength if he wanted to survive. He didn’t have all his strength.
The healer sliced through his abdomen, and Iver screamed through clenched teeth. He squashed William’s hand.
The sharp pain of the cut robbed him of his sanity. It seared him, making it impossible to focus on anything else. When he thought it couldn’t get worse, the piercing sting gave way to a violent, booming throb.
Iver’s heart raced in a furious gallop. He willed it to slow, fearing it’d push the blood from his body all the faster.
He was going to bleed out if he didn’t calm down.
Already, he was going dizzy with blood loss.
The scalpel would’ve been steel, and the cut would close on its own once the surgery was done, but that knowledge didn’t help with the raw agony burning through him.