chapter 47
The heat never truly left.
It lingered beneath Ferial’s skin like a living thing—coiled, restless, waiting. Even with the monitors humming softly around her and the steady drip of medication into her veins, her body refused to be fooled.
She lay curled slightly on her side, fingers clutching the sheet, breath shallow. Every so often a tremor would ripple through her, sharp enough to steal a gasp, subtle enough to make the doctors hesitate rather than act.
Dante sat beside her bed.
He hadn’t moved in hours.
His jacket lay discarded somewhere on the floor. His sleeves were rolled up, forearms braced on the mattress as he leaned close, one hand clasping hers, the other resting at her back as if anchoring her to him might keep her from breaking apart.
It helped.
Not enough—but some.
The monitors told the story clearly enough. Every time his grip tightened, every time his scent deepened with worry and restraint, the spikes softened. Her heart rate steadied. The tremors eased.
And every time he had to step away—every time a doctor asked him to give them space—her body rebelled.
She whimpered when he moved more than a step from her.
“I’m here,” he kept saying, over and over, voice rough with exhaustion. “I’m right here.”
But her body didn’t care about reassurance.
It wanted completion.
A senior physician stood at the foot of the bed now, flanked by two specialists—wolves, all of them, their expressions grim with something that bordered on helplessness.
“We’ve tried suppressants,” the doctor said carefully. “Sedatives. Pain management. Nothing is holding.”
Ferial squeezed her eyes shut as another wave rolled through her—hot, sharp, devastating. A sob tore from her chest before she could stop it.
Dante swore under his breath, rising halfway from his chair before forcing himself still, his jaw clenched so tightly it hurt to look at.
“Then try something else,” he snapped. “There has to be something.”
The doctor met his gaze steadily. “There isn’t. Not without risking organ failure. Her system is rejecting everything except—”
“The bond,” Lina finished quietly from where she stood near the wall.
Silence fell.
Ferial opened her eyes slowly.
Her vision blurred, but she could make out Dante’s profile—drawn, tortured, furious at the world for putting her here.
“Dante,” she whispered.
He turned instantly. “Hey. Don’t talk. Save your strength.”
She shook her head weakly. “I need to.”
Another surge hit her without warning.
She cried out, back arching off the bed, fingers clawing at the sheets as pain ripped through her—white-hot and merciless. Alarms beeped faster. Someone cursed under their breath.
Dante was there immediately, arms around her, pressing her against his chest as if he could shield her from her own body.
“I’ve got you,” he said hoarsely. “I’ve got you.”
She sobbed into his shoulder, tears soaking into his shirt. “I can’t— I can’t do this anymore.”
Her voice broke completely.
“I’m so tired.”
The words shattered something in him.
He pulled back just enough to look at her face. Her skin was flushed, damp with sweat, eyes glassy with pain and fear. She looked small. Fragile. Nothing like the woman who had stood her ground days earlier with fire in her spine.
“This isn’t your fault,” he said fiercely. “I won’t let them force this. I won’t—”
She grabbed his shirt.
Hard.
“No,” she gasped. “Listen to me.”
He stilled.
Her grip trembled, but it didn’t loosen. “I don’t want to be strong anymore. I don’t want to fight my own body. I don’t want to wake up screaming every time you’re not close enough.”
Her breathing hitched violently. “Please.”
The room seemed to shrink.
The doctors exchanged looks. Lina turned away slightly, jaw tight. Abdie stood frozen near the door, his usual humor nowhere to be found, hands clenched at his sides.
Ferial looked at Dante with desperate clarity.
“Please,” she begged. “Just—mark me. I don’t care where we are. I don’t care who sees. I can’t survive this.”
Tears streamed down her temples unchecked. “I’m so scared you’ll leave. That I’ll wake up alone. That this pain is all I’ll ever know.”
Her voice cracked into something raw and childlike.
“I don’t want to be abandoned again.”
Dante’s breath shuddered.
“No,” he whispered. “Don’t ask me that. Don’t ask me to hurt you.”
“You’re not hurting me,” she cried. “You’re saving me.”
Another convulsion tore through her, so strong it made her scream—a sound that echoed off the sterile walls and lodged itself in every heart in the room.
“Please!” she sobbed. “Please, Dante. I can’t do this without you. I can’t.”
The doctor stepped forward hesitantly. “If you choose this,” he said to Dante, “it must be her choice. Fully conscious. Fully consenting.”
Dante looked at Ferial again.
Really looked.
At the woman who had survived the district. Who had learned to disappear to stay alive. Who had finally allowed herself to be seen—and was now paying for it with her body.
He cupped her face gently, thumbs brushing away tears.
“I would never leave you,” he said, voice breaking. “Not in this life. Not in any other.”
She nodded frantically. “Then stay. Please. Stay with me.”
His forehead rested against hers.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered—to her, to the goddess, to the world.
Then he nodded once.
“I consent,” he said, voice steady despite the devastation in his eyes. “If she does.”
“I do,” Ferial sobbed. “I do, I do, I do—just please.”
The room shifted into controlled urgency. The doctors cleared space, adjusting equipment, murmuring instructions. Dante gathered her closer, shielding her instinctively even as they allowed it.
He lowered his head to her neck.
Ferial felt it before she understood it—an overwhelming warmth, different from the pain. Focused. Intentional.
“Look at me,” he murmured.
She did, tears spilling freely.
“I’m here,” he said. “You’re not alone. You never will be.”
She nodded weakly.
The moment came—not violent, not erotic—but profound. A sharp, searing pressure followed by a rush of something ancient and binding, like a door slamming shut inside her soul.
Her scream tore out of her—not in pain alone, but release.
The heat surged once more—then collapsed inward, imploding into a sudden, crushing calm.
Her body went limp.
“Ferial!” Dante shouted, catching her fully as her weight fell against him.
Monitors spiked—then steadied.
The beeping slowed.
Her breathing evened out.
She was unconscious.
But for the first time since the nightmare began, her body was quiet.
Dante held her as if she were made of glass, his face buried in her hair, shaking silently.
Abdie turned away, wiping at his eyes furiously. “I hate wolves,” he muttered brokenly. “I hate bonds. I hate destiny.”
Lina closed her eyes briefly, then exhaled. “She’ll live,” she said softly. “She’ll heal.”
The doctor nodded. “The bond is complete. Her system is stabilizing.”
Dante didn’t move.
Didn’t breathe properly.
Didn’t let go.
Because even unconscious, even fragile, even scarred by pain—she was his.
And he would spend the rest of his life making sure she never had to beg to be saved again.