Chapter 164: Shared Fears

Three days passed in a blur of fever and healing. Darian's body fought the silver poisoning. Sometimes he was better, almost perfect, but for moments his condition deteriorated. I stayed close. Watched for signs his condition was worsening.

The first night, his fever spiked. He thrashed in his sleep. I pressed cool cloths to his forehead. Held his hand until the fever broke near dawn.

The second day, he was weak but coherent. Could sit up. Could eat small amounts. I brought him broth and bread. Made sure he drank water.

He thanked me each time. Voice still rough. I told him to stop thanking me. He smiled instead.

By the third day, the fever was mostly gone. The burns on his wrists looked better. The color returned to his face.

But he was still weak. Still needed help standing. Still slept more than he was awake.

I didn't leave. Moved my routine to fit around his. Trained early before he woke. Worked on reports after he fell asleep.

The space between those times belonged to him.

To us.

We didn't talk much. He was too tired. I didn't know what to say.

But the silence wasn't empty.

I'd sit beside the bed while he rested. Read reports. Sharpened weapons. Just existed in the same space.

Sometimes his hand would find mine. He'd thread our fingers together without opening his eyes. Like he needed to know I was there.

I never pulled away.

Once, when the fever returned briefly, he rested his head in my lap. Too exhausted to care about propriety. I stroked his hair without thinking. Felt him relax under my touch.

The gesture felt natural. Right.

My wolf purred. Content.

The physical closeness was constant. Necessary. But also something else.

Wanted.

I was aware of him constantly. The way he breathed. The sounds he made in his sleep. The warmth of his skin against mine.

The tension built. Sexual. Undeniable.

But neither of us acted on it. We were both too wounded. Too focused on healing.

And I was embarrassed. Couldn't stop thinking about the fact that he'd seen me naked already. Not in a sexual way. In my wolf form after the fight. Covered in blood and dirt and violence.

Not exactly attractive.

He'd never mentioned it. Never looked at me with anything but respect.

But I thought about it. Wondered what he'd seen. What he'd thought.

Pushed the thoughts away because they made me uncomfortable.

By the fifth day, I started to fear something I'd never feared before.

Not war. Not death. Not enemies.

Domesticity.

This quiet routine we'd fallen into. The comfortable silences. The way I anticipated his needs before he asked.

What if I couldn't do this long term? What if I didn't know how to be a partner?

I was a fighter. A warrior. Good at violence and strategy and pushing my body past its limits.

Not at caring for someone. Not at being gentle. Not at building a life with another person.

The fear grew each day. Settled in my chest beside the bond.

On the sixth day, Darian tried to get out of bed and train.

I walked in to find him pulling on his boots. His shirt was half buttoned. His face was pale.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"Getting dressed."

"For what?"

"Training."

I crossed the room in three steps. "No."

"I've been lying in bed for nearly a week. I need to move."

"You need to heal."

"I'm healed enough."

"You're not."

He stood. Swayed slightly. Caught himself on the bedpost.

"See?" I said. "You can barely stand."

"I'm fine."

"You're not fine. Sit down."

"Don't tell me what to do."

My temper flared. "Someone has to. You're being stupid."

He laughed. Actually laughed. "Stupid? I'm not the one who ran into a bandit camp alone."

"That was different."

"How?"

"I wasn't recovering from magical poisoning."

"No. You were just covered in wounds and exhaustion."

"I knew what I was doing."

"So do I."

We glared at each other. The bond crackled between us.

He took a step toward the door. His leg gave out.

I caught him before he fell. Saw the fresh blood seeping through the bandage on his wrist.

Fear spiked. Sharp and cold.

"You're bleeding," I said.

"It's nothing."

"It's not nothing. Sit down."

"Lyra—"

"Sit. Down."

He sat. More from surprise than agreement.

I unwrapped the bandage. The burn had reopened. Not badly. But enough.

My hands shook as I cleaned it. Applied fresh salve. Wrapped it again.

"It's fine," he said quietly.

"It's not fine. You could have made it worse. Could have set back your healing by days."

"I didn't."

"But you could have."

I finished wrapping the bandage. Pulled too tight. He didn't complain.

"You can't keep doing this," I said.

"Doing what?"

"Pushing yourself. Ignoring your limits."

"Says the woman who fought fifteen bandits alone."

"That was different."

"Stop saying that."

"It's true."

He caught my wrist. Gentle. Made me look at him.

"It's not your responsibility to fix everything," he said.

"Yes, it is."

"Why?"

"Because you're mine."

The words came out before I could stop them. Raw. Honest.

His expression shifted. Softened. "Lyra—"

"I almost lost you," I said. "I let you leave. Let fear make my decisions. And you almost died because of it."

"That wasn't your fault."

"Wasn't it?"

"No."

I pulled my wrist free. Stood. Paced to the window.

"I don't know how to do this," I admitted.

"Do what?"

"Be someone's mate. Live with another person. Care about someone this much."

He was quiet for a moment. Then he stood. Walked over slowly. Carefully.

"I don't either," he said.

"You seem better at it than me."

"I'm not. I'm just better at hiding my fear."

I looked at him. Saw the honesty in his gray eyes.

"What are you afraid of?" I asked.

"That you'll realize I'm not worth it. That the bond made a mistake. That you'll wake up one day and regret choosing me."

The words hit hard. Because they mirrored my own fears exactly.

"I won't," I said.

"You don't know that."

"Neither do you."

We looked at each other. The tension shifted. Not anger anymore. Something deeper.

"Lyra," he said carefully. "I can stay. But not if you're afraid of me staying."

"What does that mean?"

"It means I need to know you want this. Want me. Not because of the bond. Not because of obligation. Because you choose it."

My chest tightened. "I do choose it."

"Do you?"

I didn't answer. Couldn't.

Because part of me was still afraid. Still waiting for it to fall apart. Still expecting him to leave.

He nodded slowly. Like he'd expected my silence.

"When you're sure," he said. "Really sure. Tell me."

He walked back to the bed. Sat down. Looked exhausted.

I stood at the window. Watched the settlement outside. Watched people moving through their lives.

Normal. Easy. Like they knew how to do this.

I didn't.

But I wanted to learn.

I just didn't know how to say it.