C H A P T E R F O R T Y – O N E
She’s the queen my kingdom needs.
C H A P T E R F O R T Y – O N E
Olwyn
T he moment we return to the palace, Iolas doesn’t waste a second.
He pulls open the carriage door with such force I think it might come off its hinges. His large frame blocks the dim light from outside as he reaches in, his hands finding Altair’s arm before I can blink.
“You’re going to the infirmary,” Iolas says, his voice brokering no argument.
Altair groans, trying to shake him off as Iolas yanks him from the carriage, practically dragging him out into the courtyard.
“I’m fine,” Altair grits out, stumbling slightly as his feet hit the ground. “I need to make sure Olwyn is—”
“She’s fine,” Iolas snaps, his usual calm tone edged with fury. “She’s here. Alive . You’re not fine.” He turns to two waiting guards, his grip on Altair firm. “Take him to the infirmary, get him blood. Now.”
The guards hesitate, looking between Iolas and Altair, but when Altair tries to shove them off, Iolas grabs him by the shoulders, forcing him to face him. “Altair, stop. You’re no good to her like this.”
Altair’s eyes flick to mine, his expression clouded with both pain and worry. “Olwyn…”
“I’m fine,” I say softly, trying to sound stronger than I feel. “Go. Please.”
“I need t o? —” Altair starts saying, but I remember who I am.
“Guards, take your king to the infirmary,” I say, and they immediately step forward to help Altair, to my surprise.
I sway a little and Iolas catches my arm. It’s only then that Altair seems to relent, his shoulders sagging as if all the fight has drained from him. “She gave me blood.”
Iolas nods, “I’ll get her some tea from the kitchens.”
Altair nods. “I’ll come to you after,” he murmurs to me before allowing the guards to lead him away.
Iolas watches him go, the tension in his broad shoulders palpable. He turns back to me then, his eyes scanning over my form. Before I can say anything, he steps forward, lifting me out of the carriage as if I weigh nothing.
“I’m all right,” I protest weakly, though I don’t really have the strength to push him away, feeling utterly exhausted.
“Sure you are,” he mutters, his tone a mix of sarcasm and concern as he carries me across the courtyard and into the palace, telling a maid to bring me some tea from the kitchens before he addresses me again. “Just let me do this.”
The world is a blur around us as he walks, his strong arms cradling me close. I’m too tired to argue, too drained from everything that’s happened. When we reach my chambers, he kicks the door open gently and strides in, setting me down on the edge of the bed with surprising care.
I try to smile at him, to reassure him that I’m all right, but when his hand brushes against my waist to steady me, a sharp pain flares through my side, and I wince.
His eyes narrow, and his entire demeanour shifts. The concern in his eyes is quickly replaced by something darker. Silent. Dangerous. His jaw tightens, and he takes a step back, running a hand through his honey-brown hair. For the first time since I met him, Iolas looks like he could tear the entire world apart—and it terrifies me.
“I-I’m fine,” I say quickly, trying to ease the tension, but my words fall flat. He’s not listening, his eyes focused on my waist, on the bruise forming there under my clothes.
Without a word, he turns and strides to the door. “Take off your clothes,” he says gruffly, disappearing into the hallway.
I blink, too stunned to respond. The door closes behind him, leaving me alone for a moment. My heart hammers in my chest, but I do as he says, undoing the laces before pulling the bloodstained fabric over my head and dropping it to the floor. I wince as I bend over and pull the breeches from my legs. I’m left in just my breast band and plain black underwear, feeling suddenly vulnerable and exposed.
Before I can second-guess myself, the door opens again. Iolas returns, his arms full of medical supplies. He crosses the room in a few quick strides, setting everything down on the dresser. His gaze sweeps over me, pausing for the briefest second at the sight of my bare skin and the wound on my leg, but he doesn’t say anything. He kneels in front of me, the tension still etched into every line of his face.
The silence between us is thick, as he studies my leg.
“You don’t need stitches,” he says, sounding pissed off.
I nod, hissing slightly when he rubs the healing paste into it, before wrapping a bandage around my thigh.
Next, I raise my arm, and he begins to rub a salve into the bruised skin around my ribs. His fingers are methodical, gentle, but there’s a frown pulling at his lips. His touch should feel clinical, detached. But it doesn’t. There’s something else in it—anger. And part of it is directed at me.
His hand brushes over the darkest part of the bruise, and I can’t help but wince again.
“I’m all right,” I whisper, trying to convince him as much as myself.
He doesn’t reply. His frown deepens, and his silence feels heavy, almost suffocating. It’s like he’s holding back a storm of emotions, the tension in the room coiling tighter with each second. Finally, he finishes applying the salve and pulls away, his fingers lingering on my waist for just a moment longer than necessary, before both hands rest on my hips.
“Iolas…” I say softly, reaching to cup his cheek, guiding his face up to meet my gaze. His skin is warm under my touch, and I can feel the tremor in his muscles as if he’s barely holding himself together. “Look at me.”
Reluctantly, he does, his hazel eyes meeting mine. There’s a so many emotions brewing there—anger, fear, something raw and vulnerable. His jaw works, like he’s trying to find the right words, but nothing comes.
“I told you not to go,” he finally says, his voice low, barely controlled. “I told him not to take you outside the palace. And now… now you both almost died.” His hand clenches into a fist, the tendons in his neck straining as he forces the words out.
“I’m here,” I remind him gently, keeping my voice steady. “We both made it back.”
He exhales sharply, shaking his head, before resting his forehead against my stomach, his deep exhale tickling the skin there. “I saw their bodies. How many of them there were. I smelled Altair’s spilled blood. And then I scented yours… I was terrified. Both of you—” He cuts himself off, his voice thick with something I can’t quite place. Fear, maybe. Regret. “I almost lost you both.”
I force myself to breathe, to let out the breath I've been holding, but it's shaky. “I didn’t realise…” I start, my voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t realise I meant that much to you.”
Iolas pulls back and his gaze doesn’t waver. His hazel eyes, usually filled with playful light, are now shadowed with something I haven’t seen before. “You do, Olwyn. A lot more than you know.”
My heart pounds in my chest, each beat resonating with his confession. The usual banter between us is absent, replaced by an energy that feels both uncomfortable and strangely comforting. I’m not used to seeing this side of Iolas—vulnerable, unguarded. And it scares me how much I want to reach out, to touch him, to reassure him that I understand.
His fingers linger, his hand warm against my skin. I look down, focusing on the place where his hand rests, trying to gather my thoughts before I meet his gaze. “I don’t want to lose you either,” I say, my voice quiet but firm.
A flicker of surprise crosses Iolas’s face, quickly replaced by a soft smile, one that seems almost relieved. “Good,” he murmurs, before he pulls his hands away, his touch leaving a lingering warmth on my skin. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”
He stands, moving to sit me on the edge of the bed, before sitting beside me. He shifts slightly, his gaze hardening as he studies me. “So… What happened?” His voice is quiet now, but there’s an edge to it.
“There was an attack,” I begin, my voice low. “I don’t know if they saw us in the village or were tipped off, but they caught us by surprise.”
My shoulders lift in a shrug, but I feel the phantom ache of the fight in my ribs, the ghost of his blade coming too close. “They didn’t seem to care about me at first. Altair was the target, but…” I pause, my throat tightening at the memory. “I couldn’t just stand there and let him die.”
Iolas’s jaw tenses, his hazel eyes darkening. “So, what did you do?”
“I fought one,” I admit, meeting his gaze. “I wasn’t exactly trained to go up against someone with a sword, but I managed. I used what I knew. What you taught me—daggers, hand-to-hand. But he was strong. Stronger than I expected.”
“You’re still here,” he says pointedly, though his voice is tight. “So you did something right.”
“I got lucky,” I say softly, my fingers brushing the faint bruise on my wrist. “He hit me, cracked a rib, but I found an opening and took it. And then…” My voice trails off as the memory sharpens, using my powers.
“And then?” Iolas presses, his eyes narrowing as he studies me.
I take a deep breath, forcing the words out. “Altair was badly injured. He lost a lot of blood. Too much. I… I didn’t think he’d make it unless…” I trail off, swallowing hard as I try to piece it together. “Unless I let him feed.”
Iolas’s expression doesn’t change, but I can see the flicker of something in his eyes.
“There’s more,” he says, his voice almost a whisper. It’s not a question. He knows me too well.
But I don’t want to tell him about my magic. Not yet. Not until I process it myself.
I look away, my throat tightening as I try to push down the memory of everything that happened—the village, the attack, the feeding… the way it felt like everything shifted between Altair and me. But I can’t bring myself to say it out loud. Not to Iolas. Not now.
He doesn’t push. He doesn’t need to. The silence between us says enough.
Iolas's gaze remains on me, searching, questioning. His brows furrow, and he shifts, the tension still thick in the air between us.
“Olwyn,” he says quietly, his voice softer now, but there’s an edge to it that makes my chest tighten. “Are you all right? I mean... feedings can be… intense.”
It takes me a moment to understand his words. He’s not just asking about the physical wounds. There’s something more behind the question, something not said but clear in his eyes. He’s asking if everything that happened—between me and Altair—was what I wanted.
I give him a small, reassuring smile, even though my heart still pounds in my chest. “I am, Iolas. Really,” I say, my voice steady even though I feel the heat creeping up my neck. I don’t want him to worry more than he already does. “It was... I’m good.”
He watches me for a moment longer, his bright eyes flicking over my face as if he’s looking for any sign of doubt. When he finds none, he nods slowly, but his posture doesn’t fully ease.
“All right,” he murmurs, though his voice is still filled with a quiet concern.
I look away, biting my lip. My arms instinctively fold across my chest, and the cool air brushing against my skin suddenly feels... sharper. Why do I feel so exposed?
Shit.
Gods. I’m practically naked.
I glance at Iolas, who’s sitting close enough to touch, his gaze locked on mine. He doesn’t seem to have noticed—or maybe he has, but he doesn’t let it show. His expression is focused, his concern for me written in every tense line of his face. There’s no judgment there, no indication that he’s even aware of my sudden embarrassment.
But I notice.
And now, it feels like the air between us is heavier. Warmer.
Awkwardness swells in my chest as I shift on the bed, my eyes darting around the room until I spot the blanket folded on the bed behind me. I turn quickly and grab the blanket, wrapping it tightly around my shoulders.
The movement is casual—or at least, I try to make it look that way—but I feel the heat of his eyes on me as I sit back down.
“Are you cold?” Iolas asks, his voice light, though there’s a flicker of something in his tone I can’t quite place.
“No,” I reply too quickly, clutching the blanket tighter. “Just… tired. It’s been a long day.”
He raises an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced, but he doesn’t push. Instead, he leans back slightly, his gaze softening once more.
“Long day doesn’t even begin to cover it,” he murmurs, almost to himself.
The blanket is warm against my skin, but the awkwardness lingers. I hate how self-conscious I suddenly feel—how natural everything had felt just moments ago, sitting so close to him, until the realisation of my near-nakedness crept in.
Why did it feel so natural?
“I should probably get some rest,” I say, trying to ease the sudden intimacy that hangs between us, my fingers fidgeting with the edge of the blanket on my bed.
Iolas nods, but there’s a reluctance in his movements. “Yeah,” he agrees. “But if you need anything, just call for me.”
“I will,” I promise, meeting his gaze one last time before he stands, his broad frame casting a shadow over me as he moves. He looks down at me, his expression softening as his eyes trace over my face one more time, as if he’s memorising me at this moment, making sure I’m really here.
Then, without warning, he leans down, pressing a gentle kiss to my hair. The simple gesture is filled with warmth, comfort. It’s so different from the energy that’s been in the air between us. It’s like he’s telling me, in his own way, that he’s here. That he always will be.
“Sleep well, little witch,” he whispers.
Before I can say anything else, he turns and strides out of the room, leaving me in the quiet stillness of my chambers. The door clicks shut behind him, and I release a breath.
As I get into bed and lie back against the pillows, my mind swims with everything that’s happened, it all pressing down on me. But even as my thoughts try to pull me under, the warmth of Iolas's worry and kiss lingers. And for the first time in what feels like forever, I let myself drift off to sleep.