Chapter Sixteen
William
Iver fainted, and fear slammed into William. He didn’t dare look at what the healer was doing. Seeing Iver bleeding out would make him shout and scream and threaten, and if he did that, she wouldn’t be able to work.
Iver’s soul was there, resting against his, but he was in grave danger. William dropped deep into the bond, tying Iver to this world with his soul.
Iver had opened up to him. He had let him inside, allowed him into his heart, and William couldn’t bear the thought of losing him. Their life together had only just begun.
The healer was giving strained instructions to the nurse as they worked to extract the iron particle that’d burned its way into Iver’s heart. She’d said this was a dangerous procedure. Iver’s heart was the worst place the iron could’ve traveled to.
An overwhelming sense of dread choked William.
What if the healer couldn’t extract the iron before it did irreparable damage?
What if it already had? What if she got it out but couldn’t stop the bleeding?
William didn’t want to imagine a life without Iver.
He’d grown close to him, valued him. Iver was his guiding star.
His comfort. If Iver died tethered to William’s soul, it’d rip a wound in him that wouldn’t heal no matter how much time passed. Iver had to live. He simply had to.
The sickening smell of blood and burning flesh thickened.
William clutched Iver’s hand and pressed a kiss to his temple. “Stay with me,” he whispered in his ear.
Iver’s unconscious mind responded, his soul blending with William’s.
The sounds of the infirmary faded as William slipped into him, losing all sense of self.
He wasn’t William. He was one soul inhabiting two bodies, one bleeding out on the operating table, the other hanging on, hoping for a miracle.
“I’ve got the iron,” the healer said, sounding far away. Then, “Wound is cauterized. Hand me the mountainberry extract.”
“Here,” the nurse said.
As if behind a sheer veil, William watched the healer apply a clear, viscous liquid to Iver’s internal injuries. His medical knowledge was limited, but mountainberry was often used to help wounds close up and heal quicker.
“Closing stomach,” the healer said. After a minute, she added, “The cut is healing well. Closing abdominal wall.”
The nurse pressed her thumb into Iver’s wrist. “Pulse is good.”
The healer, with relief in her voice, said, “Abdominal wall is closed.” Something hit the table with a low thud. “Now it’s up to him.”
The nurse undid the leather straps holding Iver down.
A wave of fatigue rolled over William. He must’ve, without noticing, expended all his energy supporting Iver through his surgery. Blinking, he forced himself into the present. “When will he wake up?”
“Your Majesty,” the healer said slowly, “I cannot promise that he will wake up.” William’s chest hurt.
“We’ve done our best, but this was a difficult surgery.
The incisions have already healed,” she gestured at Iver’s stomach, the skin smooth as ever, no scar marring it, “but the internal injuries worry me.” She paused.
“The king did open the bond during surgery, didn’t he? Your eyes glazed over.”
“He did. I think he knew if he didn’t he’d… he’d…” William couldn’t finish the sentence, a lump forming in his throat. He stroked Iver’s head.
“It was close,” the healer said solemnly.
“And now we have to wait?”
“Yes. Now we wait.”
“Is there anything I can do for him? Help him… somehow?”
The healer shook her head. “You’ve supported him through the surgery. Like I said, now it’s up to him to come back to us. If you want to sleep—”
“No.” Despite his fatigue, sleep was the furthest thing from William’s mind.
Over the next couple of hours, the nurse took Iver’s pulse from time to time. It remained stable, but he didn’t wake up. Eventually, there was a knock on the door, and Ailenor entered.
She took a seat on Iver’s bedside, concern written on her face. “How is he?”
“He’s made it through surgery, but there’s been no change since. They don’t know if he…” William ran his thumb over the back of Iver’s hand. “He hasn’t woken up.”
“He’s so pale.”
It was true. Iver’s complexion had turned wan. He looked like a shadow of himself. “He’s lost a lot of blood.”
“Charlotte stopped by earlier.”
“Oh?”
“She said the guards caught and subdued Silenia in the Zwinger. They’ve taken her to the dungeon. Are you sure she is the one who—”
William pressed his lips together to contain the angry remark threatening to burst out of him. “Yes.” Why didn’t Ailenor believe her brother? Could she not decide whom to trust between her siblings?
“Right. Well, either way, I’ve stationed guards outside the door. They won’t let anyone in but you, me, the healer and the nurse.”
“Good.”
“If you want to, I can watch over Iver for a while so you can rest.”
Across Iver’s unconscious body, William looked her in the eye.
“I’m not leaving his side. Not for one minute.
” With Iver’s life on the line, William trusted no one.
He didn’t think Ailenor had anything to do with the assassination attempt, but nobody would guard him as closely as he would.
Nobody mistrusted Silenia as much as he did.
No one would get the chance to hurt Iver.
“But—”
“No.”
Ailenor relented. She exchanged a few words with the nurse, then, leaving, said she’d be back in the morning.
Later, when the healer thought Iver was stable enough, William helped her transfer him from the hard operating table to a comfortable cot.
When there was no change by morning, the nurse brought a second bed—she insisted William lie down for a while. They pushed the cot up against Iver’s so that William could hold his hand in his sleep. But there was no rest for him. He clung to Iver anxiously, praying he’d make it.
By midday, everyone had finally understood that William wasn’t going to stray from Iver’s side.
Ailenor had servants bring him a change of clothes.
The nurse set up a sectioned-off corner in the infirmary where William could wash and relieve himself, the screen low enough for him to keep an eye on Iver while he, lightning quick, did what was necessary.
The longer Iver stayed unconscious, the more distressed William grew.