Chapter 18 Wen
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Wen
“MAL!”
I screamed his name and ran, my feet slipping on the throne room floor.
I went down hard on my knees beside him, the impact jarring through my bones but I didn’t care.
There was so much red. On his side where the wound gaped open, still seeping.
On his face, splattered across his cheek and jaw.
Pooling beneath him in an ever-widening circle that shouldn’t be possible, there shouldn’t be that much coming from one person.
This was bad. This was very, very bad.
“HEALERS!” My voice cracked on the word. “Someone get the healers NOW!”
People were running. Shouting. Footsteps thundering on stone.
I barely heard any of it. All I could see was Mal, the color draining from his skin like water from a broken vessel.
His chest barely rising and falling. My hands pressed against his side, trying desperately to keep everything inside where it belonged, but it kept seeping through my fingers, warm and wrong and terrifying.
“Don’t you dare,” I whispered, leaning close to his ear. “Don’t you dare leave me. We have a son. We have plans. You promised me forever and I’m holding you to it, you stubborn, reckless, idiotic...” My voice broke completely. “Please. Please don’t leave me.”
His eyes stayed closed. He didn’t respond. Didn’t move. Just that terrible shallow breathing that sounded like it was taking too much effort, like each inhale might be his last.
This was not how our story ended. I refused.
Absolutely not. He didn’t get to die dramatically on a throne room floor like some tragic hero in the novels I wrote.
That was not allowed. I hadn’t spent years falling in love with this arrogant, overprotective, infuriating man just to lose him to a megalomaniac with a god complex.
Healers burst in, robes flying behind them as they ran. They dropped to their knees beside us, hands moving over Mal’s body with practiced efficiency.
“Your Majesty, we need space,” one of them said gently, trying to pull me back.
I fought them for a second, my hands still pressed against Mal’s wound, unwilling to let go. Then logic kicked in past the panic. They needed room to work. I was in the way. Being stubborn right now would only hurt him more.
I forced myself to let go and stumble backward, my hands covered in his blood, shaking so hard I could barely stand.
My eyes swept the throne room, taking in the chaos for the first time.
Other guards from the mission were being tended to by more medical staff.
All of them hurt, some worse than others.
Sitting up or lying down, bandages and magic and concerned faces everywhere I looked.
I counted again quickly, desperately. Eight guards had come back through the portal.
Mal had taken ten.
Two were missing, probably dead. Two were still in that forest, their bodies abandoned in enemy territory because we hadn’t had time to bring them home.
Oh god. Two men with families. With lives.
With futures that just ended in a clearing because a mad king couldn’t accept his own mortality.
I shoved the grief down hard, locked it away in a box I’d open later.
I wasn’t able to deal with that now. Later.
I’d mourn them later, give them the tears they deserved.
Right now Mal needed me functional, not sobbing on the floor about things I couldn’t change.
The medical team created a stretcher out of pure energy, the platform glowing faintly blue. They lifted Mal onto it gently, supporting his head and injured torso. His head lolled to one side, completely limp.
“I’m coming with you,” I said.
They didn’t argue.
We moved through the castle toward the infirmary, me following so close I was practically stepping on their heels.
Servants pressed themselves against walls as we passed, eyes wide with shock.
Guards bowed but their expressions were grim.
Their king was being carried through the halls unconscious and covered in red.
The whole castle would know within minutes. Gossip traveled faster than magic in this place.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, past the terror, I was grateful Killian was with Sorcha. He didn’t need to see this. Didn’t need to see his father like this. He was only four. Four-year-olds shouldn’t have to see their parents broken.
No. Not broken. Mal was NOT broken. He was just... temporarily very damaged. He’d be fine. He had to be fine.
The infirmary was ready when we arrived, like they’d been preparing from the moment the portal opened.
Beds lined up, supplies organized, more staff waiting with fierce determination.
They transferred Mal from the stretcher to a bed with careful efficiency that spoke of too much practice with wounded royalty.
Then they went to work.
I stood in the corner, arms wrapped around myself, and watched every single movement they made.
Cleaning first, washing away the red to see the damage underneath.
The gash in his side was deep, cutting through muscle down to bone.
I could see white where I shouldn’t be able to see white.
His ribs were fractured in multiple places, the skin already darkening with bruises that spread across his torso like ink in water.
I’d seen him injured before. Scratches and cuts from training, the occasional wound from diplomatic incidents gone wrong. Never like this. Never lying unconscious while people worked frantically to keep him alive.
They used herbs ground into paste and spread across the wounds. Stitches for what his slow healing couldn’t close completely. Bandages wrapped around his ribs to stabilize them. The process took what felt like hours but was probably closer to one.
I counted every second. Every breath he took. Every beat of his heart visible in his throat.
Finally, the head healer stepped back and approached me. Her face was professionally neutral but her eyes told a different story.
“The wounds are closed,” she said carefully. “The internal damage is healing. He should be waking up soon.”
“Should be?” I latched onto those words immediately. “What does that mean?”
She hesitated.
That hesitation was worse than anything she could have said.
“He is not healing as fast as he should be,” she admitted slowly. “I do not know why.”
My hands clenched at my sides. “What do you mean you don’t know why?”
“I do not know, Your Majesty,” she said, and I could hear the frustration underneath the professional calm. “His body should be recovering faster. He is a powerful wolf, an alpha. One of the strongest we have. But something is slowing the process.”
“Then fix it.” My voice came out harder than I intended. “I don’t care what it costs. I don’t care what you need. Fix it.”
“We are trying, Your Majesty. We are doing everything we can.”
But it didn’t feel like enough. Nothing felt like enough.
The medical staff left to tend to the other hurt guards, promising to check on Mal regularly. I moved to his bedside the moment they were gone and grabbed his hand. It was warm. That had to be good. That had to mean something.
I sank into the chair beside the bed.
“Don’t leave me,” I whispered. “I can’t do this without you. Killian can’t do this without you. We need you.” I squeezed his hand tighter. “And if you die, I swear to every god in every realm, I will find a way to bring you back just so I can kill you myself for putting me through this.”
His face stayed pale. His breathing stayed too light. But he was alive. His pulse was visible in his throat, steady if weak.
That was enough for now.
***
Hours crept by with agonizing slowness. The medical team came and went, checking vitals, adjusting bandages. Each time someone entered, I looked up hopefully. Each time they left without good news, something in my chest sank a little further.
Mal didn’t wake or move. Didn’t give any sign that he could hear me talking to him in a steady stream of words and threats and promises.
I told him about Killian’s latest obsession with trying to make his portals sparkle.
About the book I’d been reading that had a terrible ending and I was going to write a strongly worded letter to the author.
About how I was going to make him take me somewhere warm and sunny when he recovered because I deserved a vacation after this level of stress.
About how the cook had made those pastries he liked and he was missing them and I might eat them all myself out of spite.
Stupid things. Important things. Anything to fill the silence.
“You know,” I said at one point, my voice hoarse, “if you’re doing this for attention, it’s working. You have my complete and undivided attention. Congratulations. You can wake up now.”
Nothing.
“This is very dramatic of you,” I continued. “Very theatrical. I’m impressed. But the performance can end anytime. I’ve seen enough.”
Still nothing.
“I’m going to be so insufferable when you wake up,” I warned him. “I’m going to hover. I’m going to fuss. I’m going to make you eat soup and rest and you’re going to hate every second of it and I don’t care because you scared me and you deserve to suffer through my overprotective phase.”
His breathing stayed steady. His pulse stayed weak but present.
I didn’t leave his side. What if he woke up and I wasn’t there? What if something went wrong?
Sometime deep into the night, exhaustion finally won. I was still holding his hand, my head resting on the edge of his bed, my eyes burning from tears and lack of sleep. I tried to stay awake but my body had other ideas.
My eyes slid closed…And, I didn’t know how long later, I woke up to someone stroking my hair.
The touch was gentle, familiar, achingly beloved. For a moment I didn’t move, caught between sleep and waking, not quite believing it was real. I’d dreamed this. Dreamed him waking up, dreamed everything being fine, only to jolt awake and find him still unconscious.
Then my head jerked up.