Chapter 29
Cora POV
I stand beside the bed as the doctor changes Garrion’s bandages for the night. Garrion doesn’t flinch, not once. He just sits there, jaw tight, eyes distant, enduring the pain in silence the way he always does.
But watching him like this… torn, bruised, barely able to move… it twists something sharp inside me. I can’t breathe in this room any longer.
“I’m going to get you dinner,” I announce, keeping my voice steady. The truth is far less noble. I need to step away before the sight of him like this breaks me.
The dining hall is loud with evening chatter, the clatter of bowls and the warmth of firelight. As I walk through, people bow their heads to me, respectful, deferential. I barely register it. My mind is still upstairs with Garrion.
I fill a plate with food for him. Something comforting. Something he’ll actually eat.
Mika appears at my side, offering me a cup of ale with a grin. “He shouldn’t be drinking in his condition,” I scold, narrowing my eyes.
Mika only gives me that mischievous smile of his. “He needs it. Trust me.”
I grab him by the arm and pull him aside, lowering my voice to a sharp whisper. “What is going on?”
He glances around, then leans in. “Let’s just say… if I hadn’t seen my wife for almost a month, I’d want to do unspeakable things to her.”
The meaning hits me like a thrown stone. Heat rises to my cheeks, equal parts embarrassment and realization.
“Oh,” I breathe.
Mika shrugs. “It’s that, or you can ask the doctor for a sleeping draft. Your choice.”
I stare at him, torn between wanting to throttle him and admitting he might be right. Garrion is restless, frustrated, trapped in a body that won’t obey him. And I’ve been hovering over him like a storm cloud.
I take a slow breath, steadying myself.
“Thank you,” I mutter, though it tastes like gravel.
Mika only smirks. “Anytime, my lady.”
I gather the tray and head back upstairs, my mind racing. Garrion doesn’t need coddling. He needs comfort. He needs grounding. He needs me, not hovering, not worrying, but present.
And I intend to give him exactly that.
The doctor is already gone by the time I return to the room.
Garrion looks exhausted but alert, propped up against the pillows.
I place another pillow across his lap and set the tray on top of it.
He doesn’t wait for ceremony, he digs in immediately, hunger overtaking whatever pride he usually carries.
I move to the mirror, picking up my brush. As I run it through my hair, I watch him in the reflection. The way he eats. The way his shoulders relax. The way he keeps glancing at me as if making sure I’m still here.
He lifts the mug of ale Mika insisted on giving him. “Let me guess, this is from Mika?”
I turn slightly, brushing a strand behind my ear. “His exact words were: ‘You need it.’ Whatever that means.”
Garrion lets out a low, warm laugh, the kind that loosens something tight in my chest. It’s good to hear him laugh again. Good to see him alive, eating, breathing, teasing.
I finish brushing my hair and slip behind the bath partition. I pull off my dress and change into my nightdress, soft, warm, modest. Sleeping bare would be… unwise tonight. Not with him healing. Not with the way he looks at me. Not with the way I look at him.
As I tie the last ribbon, I pause for a moment, steadying myself. Garrion is recovering. I need to be careful. I need to be patient.
His plate is empty, the mug of ale drained. I take the tray from his lap and carry it to the small table by the door.
I cross the room and slip into the bed beside him. Carefully, I rearrange the pillows behind his back and shoulders, easing him down so he’s lying comfortably. He lets me guide him without protest, his body relaxing under my hands.
“I could get used to this, you know,” he murmurs, voice low and warm.
I arch a brow at him, half amused, half suspicious.
He gives me a faint, crooked smile. “You looking after me.”
There’s something in his tone, teasing, yes, but also honest. Vulnerable. As if he’s admitting he likes being cared for, even though he’s spent his whole life pretending he doesn’t need it.
I settle beside him, close enough that our shoulders brush, and let the moment stretch between us. His breath evens out, his eyes soften, and for the first time since he woke, he looks… content.
And gods help me, I could get used to this too.
“Go to sleep,” I murmur, smoothing a hand over the blanket near his shoulder.
He gives me that crooked smile “No goodnight kiss for me?”
I narrow my eyes at him, pretending to be stern. “Just one. I don’t want you getting any… unspeakable ideas.”
His laugh is soft, warm, and far too knowing.
I prop myself up on my elbow and lean over him, brushing my lips against his in a gentle kiss meant to be brief. But the moment our mouths touch, his hand lifts, slow, careful and cradles my face with a tenderness that steals my breath.
He deepens the kiss, not with urgency but with longing, with gratitude, with the quiet ache of someone who thought he might never have this again.
The warmth of his palm against my cheek, the softness of his mouth, the way he sighs into me, it all sends a shiver through me, my body responding before I can think.
I pull back just enough to breathe, my forehead resting against his, my pulse unsteady.
"Sleep, Garrion,” I whisper against his lips, giving him one last soft peck before settling my head on his shoulder.
He exhales, the tension leaving his body all at once. He doesn’t argue, doesn’t tease, doesn’t try to stay awake for my sake. He simply lets go. Within moments, his breathing evens out, deep and steady, his body surrendering to the rest it so desperately needs.
But sleep does not come for me.
I lie there in the dark, listening to the rhythm of his breath, feeling the warmth of him beneath my cheek. My mind refuses to quiet. It races, looping the same thought over and over like a blade sharpening itself on stone.
How do I free him from the king’s leash?
There has to be a way. No man, no matter how powerful, rules without fear. No throne stands without cracks. Somewhere, hidden beneath the crown and the arrogance, King Dorian has a weakness. A secret. A vulnerability.
Something I can use.
Something I will use.
I stare into the darkness, my hand resting lightly over Garrion’s heart, feeling it beat beneath my palm. He has carried this burden his entire life. He has bled for it, suffered for it.
I will not let him suffer anymore.
Whatever the king fears, whatever shadow haunts him, whatever truth he is hiding, I will find it. And when I do, I will use it to break his hold over Garrion forever.
Let the king have his armies. Let him have his throne. Let him believe himself untouchable.
He has never faced me.
My breath catches.
The king doesn’t have armies. The generals do.
Garrion’s men are loyal to him, not to the crown. Just as my father’s soldiers were loyal to him, not to the throne he serves. Power doesn’t sit on a gilded chair. It sits in the hands of those who command steel and loyalty.
Without the generals, the king is nothing. Without their support, he is defenseless, just a man in a jeweled cloak, clinging to authority that isn’t truly his.
The realization hits me like a spark to dry tinder.
The king’s strength is an illusion. His control over Garrion is an illusion. His entire rule rests on the backs of men who would follow Garrion into fire before they’d kneel to Dorian’s whims.
My father will never support me in this. But my brother will.
He has a child on the way, a future he can already hold in his hands.
And I know him well enough to understand what that means.
He will not want his son or daughter raised under the same leash Garrion wears.
He will not want them married off like livestock or summoned to serve the king like a trained hound.
He will fight for his child’s freedom. And that means he will fight for Garrion’s.
But timing is everything.
My father is only sixty?five, still strong, still sharp, still very much in control of our house. As long as he lives, my brother cannot act openly. Neither can I. Any move we make now would be crushed before it ever takes shape.
So I must wait. Watch. Plan.
With the beginnings of a plan forming in my mind, I force myself to let it rest. I’ll need clarity if I’m going to do this right. No rushing. No reckless moves. Strength first. Strategy second.
I will train with Mika. I will become strong. Unstoppable.
I wake before dawn, the room still wrapped in darkness. Garrion lies beside me in deep, unbroken sleep, his breathing slow, steady, peaceful. His body needs this rest, and I won’t disturb it. I slip from the bed quietly, dress, and step into the cold corridor.
I know exactly what waits for me on the training field this morning. Pain. Exhaustion. Humiliation, probably. But I will endure every moment of it, for the man I love, for the future I intend to carve out of stone and blood if I must.
As I walk toward the field, a cold tickle brushes my cheek. I look up. Snowflakes drift from the sky, soft, delicate, the first snowfall of the year. In the south, they won’t see snow for another month at least.
Here, winter always comes sooner. And so, it seems, do battles.
“My Lady,” Mika calls as I approach.
“You call Garrion ‘Garrion,’ so you might as well call me Cora,” I tell him, pulling my cloak tighter around me.
He studies me for a moment, then nods once. “Cora.”
There’s no ceremony after that. No easing into it. Mika puts me straight into drills, running laps across the frost?bitten ground, push?ups until my arms shake, lifting heavy bags of sand that feel like they’re filled with stone.
The cold bites at my skin, my breath burns in my lungs, and my muscles scream long before dawn even breaks.
But I don’t stop. I don’t complain. I don’t falter.
Because this pain is nothing compared to the chains wrapped around Garrion’s life.
And I intend to break every single one.
Mika finally calls an end to our training session when my arms give out and I can no longer hold myself upright.
My muscles tremble with every breath. I start the slow walk back towards the fortress, each step feeling like I’m dragging my body through thick mud.
The cold morning air bites at my skin, but it’s nothing compared to the fire burning in my limbs.
By the time I reach our room, my legs are shaking. I push the door open, and freeze.
Garrion is out of bed.
He’s moving slowly, painfully, gripping the edge of the table for balance as he makes his way toward the steaming bath Soma must have prepared. His jaw is set, his determination unmistakable, but his body is clearly protesting every step.
“What are you doing?” I rush to his side, slipping an arm around him before he can topple over.
He looks at me with that infuriating, irresistible stubbornness. “I want to have a bath with my wife,” he says plainly, as if it’s the most reasonable thing in the world.
For a moment, all I can do is stare at him, this man who can barely stand, who should be resting, who is still somehow trying to be close to me, to share something normal, something intimate, something ours.
And despite my exhaustion, despite the ache in every muscle, warmth blooms in my chest.
Because he’s trying.
Because he wants me near. Because even wounded, he refuses to be distant.
But gods, he’s going to be the death of me.