29. Navira
TWENTY-NINE
NAVIRA
Consciousness returned as a dream—soft lips on hers, the taste of salt and desperation, a slow, rhythmic pressure on her chest. Her eyelids fluttered open. The twin moons hung above like watchful, luminous eyes in a velvet sky.
Is this death? Navira wondered, the thought floating, serene and detached. A pleasant one, if so.
Then reality crashed through the dream with the violence of a tsunami.
Her body convulsed, a raw, hacking cough tearing from her lungs as seawater erupted from her throat. She turned her head, choking, gasping, the gritty texture of wet sand against her cheek. The pressure on her chest eased.
She was alive, and she was lying on the moonlit beach, Thalric’s powerful frame hovering over her, his face etched with a fear so profound it stripped the Alpha from him, leaving only the man.
Memory flooded back, not as a thought, but as a physical echo—the dark, sinuous shadow of the eel’s tail whipping through the water, its trajectory a lethal line straight for Thalric’s exposed wolf neck.
The certainty that had crystallized in that split-second: it would wrap, it would snap, it would kill him.
And her body had moved before her mind could form a protest, placing itself in the path of that strike.
The impact—a jarring, brutal slam against her shoulder and back.
Then the agony of the electric shock piercing through her, a billion white-hot needles seizing every muscle, freezing her nerves, snuffing out her consciousness with the finality of a switched-off light.
She’d thought, in that last fragment of awareness: This is it. This is how I die.
“Easy. Breathe. Just breathe, Navira.” Thalric’s voice was a low, controlled rumble, but the control was a thin veneer over a seismic terror.
She tried to obey, drawing in a ragged, shuddering breath. Her whole body felt alien—tingling, heavy, unresponsive. A cold spike of panic lanced through her as she attempted to lift her hand. Her fingers twitched, but her arm remained a leaden weight on the sand.
Paralyzed.
The word screamed in her mind, and with it came the familiar memory—the sickening snap in her rotator cuff five years ago, the sudden weakness, the end of everything. Jeremy’s frustrated face as he’d helped her from the pool, his support already turning cold. The long, quiet death of her identity.
“Don’t move.” Thalric’s command was absolute, his large, warm hand settling gently on her sternum, holding her still. “Your body’s in shock. The nerves are stunned, not broken. It will pass. But you need to be still. Just focus on me.”
Her panicked blue eyes locked onto his storm-grey ones.
Through the incomplete mate bond, she felt it—a torrent of his emotions battering against her own fear.
His worry was a dark, churning sea. His determination was a granite cliff.
And beneath it all, something warmer, deeper, more terrifying in its intensity.
“Slow breaths,” he instructed, his thumb stroking a slow arc on her collarbone. “In… and out.”
She tried, her breath hiccupping.
He isn’t Jeremy, she told herself. Thalric saved you. Thalric is helping. Thalric is still here.
She focused on the feel of his hand, the solid reality of him kneeling in the sand, his bare torso gleaming under the moonlight. She leaned into the bond, past the worry, past the determination, and let herself feel the truth he was radiating.
Love.
It wasn’t a word he’d said. It was a resonance in her very soul. It settled the frantic beating of her heart and warmed the cold dread in her stomach.
He loves you. He will make this right.
“I’m going to carry you,” he said, his voice leaving no room for argument.
“To my chambers. I’ll call for the healer.
You will be assessed and treated. I will see to it.
” He leaned closer, his gaze boring into hers, Alpha and mate in one fierce package.
“Whatever it takes, Navira. I will get you back to full strength. Do you understand me?”
The conviction in his words, backed by that powerful emotion flowing through the bond, was a balm. She managed a slight nod.
He gave her a soft smile. “Good. Close your eyes. Keep your breathing slow and easy. Let go of everything else.”
She obeyed, shutting out the starlit sky, the sound of the waves, the ache in her body. There was only the rhythm of her breath and the sure, steady strength of the man beside her.
He gathered her with infinite care, one arm sliding under her knees, the other cradling her back, lifting her against his chest as if she were made of spun glass.
Her head lolled against the solid muscle of his shoulder.
She kept her eyes closed, focusing on the rise and fall of her own lungs and on the secure, rhythmic motion of his strides as he carried her from the shore.
The journey was a blur of murmured reassurances and the intoxicating scent of him.
When he finally laid her down on the familiar softness of his massive bed, she tentatively tested her connection to her body.
A mental command to her toes and fingers.
Then came a faint, answering wiggle of her toes and a curling of her fingers against the sheets.
“I can feel them,” she whispered, a wave of relief so potent it made her eyes sting.
“Don’t test it right now.” His hand covered hers, stilling the movement. His tone was gentle but firm. “Let your body heal at its own pace. The healer will tell us the way forward.”
He moved to the nightstand, grabbing his communicator and barking a few authoritative sentences into it.
Exhaustion and the lingering echoes of the shock pulled at her. She closed her eyes again, letting the softness of the bed and the sound of his voice wash over her. The darkness this time was warm and welcome.
She drifted, and when she surfaced, a new presence filled the room—an older woman with kind eyes and soft hands. Thalric hadn’t left. He sat on the edge of the bed, her hand in his, his gaze fixed on the healer’s work.
“The neural disruption is significant,” the healer announced, her voice calm and professional. “But no permanent damage. However, it will take several days for the effects to fully recede. You must rest. No strenuous activity for a while.”
Days.
Navira’s heart sank. Then frustration bubbled up. “I can’t rest. The pack needs training. The war—”
“The pack,” Thalric cut in, his voice leaving no room for debate, “will manage. Kaelen and Sylar can run drills based on what you’ve already taught them. Your health is not negotiable.”
She opened her mouth to argue, but the look in his eyes—a possessive, protective fury tempered by that undeniable, bone-deep love—stole her words. This wasn’t Jeremy’s impatient frustration. This was a vow.
The healer turned to Thalric, listing instructions—herbal infusions to reduce inflammation, gentle mobility exercises to begin tomorrow, monitoring for any lingering dizziness. “I can have an attendant sent to—”
“No,” Thalric said, the single syllable final. “I will see to her care.”
“Thalric, you have a territory to defend,” Navira protested weakly.
He leaned over her, blocking out the rest of the room.
His face was inches from hers, his stormy eyes blazing.
“My first priority is you. My mate. You took a killing blow meant for me. You think for one second I will delegate your recovery? You will rest. You will heal. And I will be the one to ensure it.”
The healer, wisely, finished her instructions and slipped from the room.