My eyes opened slowly, adjusting to the lighting of the room. The space around me was completely unfamiliar. I was lying on a bed, not a cot or a pallet on the floor, but an actual bed with a real mattress. The sheets beneath me felt impossibly soft and crisp, unlike my usual bedding which always felt grimy no matter how many times I tried to wash it.
The room itself was spacious, larger than the entire servants' quarters. Clean. That was the first thing that struck me. It smelled clean, like fresh linen and beeswax, not mold and unwashed bodies. A chandelier hung from the marble ceiling, its crystals catching the lamplight and scattering it in rainbow fragments across the walls.
I stared around in awe, trying to reconcile this grandeur with the dungeon I'd woken in. Where was I? How long had I been unconscious?
The door handle twisted. I tensed instinctively, but it was only Rowan striding in, his gait radiating confidence and authority. His eyes found mine immediately, and something in his expression softened.
"You're awake. Good." He moved closer to the bed, his movements controlled and purposeful. "Your wound needs to be treated."
The wound. I'd nearly forgotten about it in my confusion. Now that he mentioned it, I became aware of the dull ache in my side. Strange. It had hurt so much more before. Why didn't it hurt now?
"It doesn't hurt anymore. I'll be fine." I said feigning indifference.
His expression hardened slightly. "That may be so, but it can still get infected. Blood poisoning, fever, sepsis." He held my gaze. "I've seen wolves die from smaller wounds that weren't properly cleaned. So I'm going to treat it."
It wasn't really a question. His tone brooked no argument, carrying that edge of Alpha authority .
He crossed to a huge wooden cabinet against the far wall and retrieved a box made of polished wood with leopard skin stretched across its lid. He set it on the bed beside me, then turned his attention to my injured side.
"I need to see it properly. I'm going to turn you." His hands were already moving, one on my shoulder, one on my hip. He turned me gently onto my side, exposing the wound. The movement pulled at my injury, making me wince.
"The fabric is stuck to the dried blood," he murmured, more to himself than to me. "I'll need to cut it away."
He pulled a knife from his belt. I went rigid at the sight of the blade, and he paused, noticing my reaction.
"I'm just cutting the shirt," he said quietly. "Nothing else."
The knife slid beneath the torn fabric near my hip. I heard the whisper of the blade cutting through cloth, felt the slight tug as he worked. Cool air hit my exposed skin, raising goosebumps across my entire side. I remained as passive as possible, trying to maintain my composure, trying not to think about how vulnerable I was. How exposed.
"This will sting," he said, his tone matter of fact as he opened the medical box.
Inside were various bottles, rolls of white cloth, needles, thread, and other instruments I didn't recognize. He selected a brown bottle labeled "vinegar" in neat script. The sharp, acidic smell hit my nose even before he opened it.
He poured some of the liquid onto a clean white cloth, saturating it until it dripped. Then, without further warning, he pressed it directly against the open gash on my side.
I hissed through clenched teeth as white hot pain seared through me. It burned like a cauldron of fire had been poured directly into the wound.Tears formed at the corners of my eyes before I could stop them.
His free hand came to rest on my hip, steadying me as my body tried instinctively to pull away. "This is the worst part. The next step won't feel as bad."
His words offered no comfort but served as more bad news, a promise of more pain to come.
He kept the vinegar soaked cloth pressed against the wound for what felt like a long time though it was probably only seconds. When he finally pulled it away, I could breathe again. Gasping, shaking breaths, but breathing.
"You're doing well," he said quietly. "Most people scream during the cleaning."
I didn't tell him that I'd screamed plenty in the dungeon. That I'd learned a long time ago that screaming changed nothing.
He reached back into the box and pulled out a length of what looked like horsehair, except thinner and more uniform. Catgut, I realized with a sickening lurch. Stitching thread made from animal intestines. And beside it, a curved needle that glinted in the lamplight.
"The wound is too deep to heal on its own," he explained, threading the needle with practiced ease. "If I don't stitch it closed, it will keep opening. You could bleed out." He met my eyes. "I'm going to sew it shut. It will hurt, but not as much as the vinegar. Try to stay still."
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
He positioned himself for a better angle, one hand resting on my waist to keep me steady. The needle approached my skin, and I forced myself not to flinch away.
The first puncture was sharp and immediate. I felt the needle pierce the edge of the wound, felt it push through layers of skin and tissue. The sensation was wrong, unnatural, making my stomach turn. The thread followed, sliding through the hole the needle had made, a foreign object being dragged through my flesh.
"Breathe," Rowan murmured. "You're holding your breath."
I released the breath I hadn't realized I was holding, trying to focus on anything other than what he was doing. His hands were surprisingly steady, his movements careful and precise. This wasn't the first time he'd done this.
The needle punctured the other side of the wound, pulling the edges together. He drew the thread through slowly, deliberately, making sure it was snug but not too tight. Then he tied it off with quick, efficient movements.
One stitch done. But the wound was long, a gash that ran for several inches along my ribs. He'd need at least six or seven more.
The second stitch was no easier than the first. Puncture, pull through, draw tight, tie off. My fingers clutched at the sheets beneath me, twisting the fabric as I fought to stay put.
The final stitch was near my ribs, where the wound was deepest. The needle had to go deeper to catch enough tissue. I couldn't stop the whimper that escaped when it pierced through.
"Last one," he breathed. "You're almost there."
He pulled the thread through, drew the edges together one final time, and tied off the knot. Then he sat back, examining his work with a critical eye.
"Good," he murmured. "Clean stitches. It should heal without much scarring."
He reached for another clean cloth and dampened it with water from a pitcher on the nearby table. Gently, carefully, he wiped away the blood and vinegar from around the wound, cleaning the area until only the neat line of stitches remained.
Then he did something unexpected.
He leaned down and blew softly across the stitched wound.
The sensation was immediate and startling. His breath was warm against my skin, but where it touched the inflamed tissue, it felt cooling, soothing. Like a gentle breeze on a fevered brow. The sharp, burning pain dulled to a manageable throb.
"Old wolf remedy," he said quietly, noticing my surprise. "My mother used to do it when I got hurt as a child. Something about cooling the inflammation, helping the healing begin." He straightened, though his hand remained resting lightly on my hip. "Does it help?"
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. The relief was minimal, but after everything, even minimal relief felt like a gift.
He blew across the wound one more time, then reached for a roll of clean bandages. "I need to wrap it. This will require you to sit up slightly. Can you manage that?"
"I think so."
He helped me into a half sitting position, supporting my back with one arm while keeping pressure off the wound. Then he began wrapping the bandage around my torso, his movements efficient but gentle. The cloth wound around and around, covering the stitches, protecting them.
"Not too tight?" he asked as he worked.
"It's fine."
He secured the end of the bandage with a small metal clip, then helped me lie back down. Exhaustion crashed over me immediately. The treatment had taken more out of me than I'd realized.
"Rest now," Rowan said, pulling a blanket up over me. "The worst is over. You'll be sore for a few days, but the stitches will hold.
" Why are you doing this " I asked before I could stop myself
But before he could answer, the door slammed open.
"Rowan!"
Her voice sliced through the air like a blade. His mother the Luna swept into the room, her gown rustling like authority itself.
Her gaze found me, and I felt stripped bare under it.
"What," she hissed, "is she doing here?"
Rowan rose slowly, his broad shoulders tense. "She's injured. I couldn't just leave her"
"Injured?" The Luna's laugh was cold and sharp. "You mean the daughter of the man who murdered your father? And you thought to save her?"
I wanted to shrink into the cot, to disappear, but something inside me sparked instead. I lifted my chin, even as my hands trembled. "My father was framed," I yelled. Her eyes burned into me. "Lies come easily to traitors' bloodlines."
Rowan stepped between us. "Enough, Mother."
The tension between them thickened. The Luna's lips parted to strike again but then the door burst open for a second time.
Kade stood there, his face grim, eyes flashing with the same fury that burned during the solstice.
"Rowan," he said, ignoring me completely, "we've got an intruder in the eastern border."