Chapter 43 — Rhiannon #3
Branson emerges from the surgical room, his massive frame filling the doorway. Blood stains his forearms up to the elbows, drying rust-brown against his skin. Dark smears mark his shirt from carrying Conan.
Behind him, Olcan strips off red-stained gloves. “Conan is stable. The wound was deep, but missed his vital organs. He’ll need rest and monitoring, but I expect a full recovery.”
The tightness releases from my shoulders. Conan will live. Ethan is lucid. We didn’t lose anyone tonight.
“Akila?” I ask.
“Refusing to leave his side.” Branson’s mouth twitches. Almost a smile. “And I wouldn’t recommend trying to persuade her otherwise.”
A small smile tugs at my mouth. Of course she is. Whatever exists between those two runs deeper than either of them will admit.
“Now for my favorite human.” Olcan approaches Ethan’s bedside.
I have to step back to give him room to work, but when my fingers slip free from Ethan’s, the loss of contact stings like removing a bandage too soon.
No. Ours. Stay with him. My wolf is getting riled up again. I force myself to ignore her, my feet moving me another step backward.
“Ethan.” Olcan rouses him with a gentle touch to his shoulder.
“Hey, doc.” His voice is thin when it emerges. He sounds drained.
“How are you feeling?”
“Been worse.” Ethan grins for a moment. “Or, maybe not.”
Olcan checks his pulse, examines his pupils, and searches for injuries hidden beneath his dark hair and clothing.
His gaze stays fixed on the pendant as he speaks, more to himself than to us. “Magical overwhelm. Significant, but not to life-threatening proportions. Fascinating. . .” He examines the crystal more closely. “The charm absorbed most of the backlash.”
“Guess you could say I’m charmed.” Ethan’s grin is lopsided, barely holding.
My eyes roll despite my worry.
Olcan ignores him, pressing methodical fingers along Ethan’s forearm toward the crystal. “Can you feel this?”
“Yeah. Tingles.”
“Interesting.” Olcan’s brow furrows as he removes the chain from Ethan’s wrist and extends it toward me without looking back. “He doesn’t need this anymore.”
I take the charm as he examines Ethan’s hand and wrist where the crystal touched his skin. “The resonance pattern suggests...” He trails off, lost in clinical curiosity.
Crossing over to Haron, I press the pendant into her palm. “Thank you. It saved his life.”
Haron nods once, fingers closing around the crystal. She clutches it to her chest.
Turning back toward Olcan, I open my mouth to ask for more details about Ethan’s condition. Buta noise from Stasio’s room freezes me in place.
A groan: low and pained. Then, there’s movement — the rustle of sheets, the creak of the bed frame.
“Father!” Haron’s voice breaks on the word. She’s through the door before I can blink, white hair streaming behind her.
Xander and I exchange a glance. Then we follow.
Stasio’s room is dimmer than the main area of the infirmary, lit only by a single lamp burning low on the bedside table. The Elder is propped up against pillows, his silver hair spread across the white linens like spilled moonlight.
“Haron.” His hazel eyes brighten as they find Haron. She drops to his bedside.
“Father, you’re awake.” Tears stream down her cheeks as she grasps her father’s weathered hand. “Thank the gods.”
“Yes, thank the gods.” Stasio’s fingers curl weakly around hers.
“I’m so sorry.” Haron’s voice fractures. “Holden—”
“Yes, I felt it, my dear.” Stasio’s eyes close. When they open again, cold grief has replaced the warmth they held.
Xander straightens, his posture respectful but grim. “Elder, we had no choice. He—”
“No need to explain, Alpha.” Stasio’s tone holds steady despite the pain threading through it. “I saw everything. When he stole my magic, our connection deepened. I witnessed his ambitions. His rage.” Solemn understanding settles over his features like winter frost. “His end.”
Haron buries her sob into Stasio’s blankets.
Xander reaches into his pocket, withdrawing Holden’s charm. The pendant glints in the lamplight as he extends it toward Stasio.
“This was his.”
Haron lets out a choked whimper. Stasio’s gaze fixes on the crystal, unblinking. Then his unsteady hand reaches out, takes it, and clutches it against his chest like a lost relic.
“My boy.” His words break apart. “My foolish, angry boy.”
Haron rises from her knees, folding herself over her father in an embrace. They cling to each other, two survivors of a family torn apart by violence and hatred.
“I’m so sorry for your loss.” Xander says.
Stasio’s eyes meet his over Haron’s white hair. “He chose his path. You did what was necessary to protect all of us.” There’s a heavy pause before the Elder says, “I must thank you for that.”
I touch Xander’s arm. A silent signal. He nods, understanding.
“We’ll give you some privacy,” he says. “If you need anything—”
Stasio nods, his weathered hand smoothing over Haron’s white hair as she presses her face against his chest, soaking his blanket with her tears.
We step out, easing the door shut. The sounds of their mourning follow us into the main infirmary — muffled, but impossible to ignore.