Chapter 33 The Anger
The Echo of Shared Blood
The corridor erupted into motion the instant Fernando’s presence registered. Footsteps pounded from both directions, heavy boots slamming against stone as a dozen guards spilled from adjacent passages, drawn by the sounds of violence and the unmistakable pulse of an Alpha’s unleashed fury. They took in the scene with swift, practiced eyes: five slave wolves sprawled on the floor, one cradling a shattered arm, the others pressed flat in submission, throats exposed and trembling.
“Take them,” Fernando commanded, voice carrying the deep, resonant growl of his beast. “All of them. Cells. Full silver restraints. No food. No water. Until I say otherwise.”
The guards moved without hesitation. They hauled the slaves to their feet, ignoring whimpers and curses, dragging them away in pairs. Chains rattled as manacles snapped shut around wrists and ankles, the metallic tang of silver filling the air. The scarred wolf with the broken arm screamed once as guards wrenched his limbs into position, then fell silent, dragged bodily from the corridor.
Fernando watched them go, chest heaving, gold fire still smoldering in his eyes. Then his knees buckled.
He staggered, one hand slamming against the wall for support. Blood welled in his mouth and sprayed across the stone in a violent cough, bright red flecks splattering the floor. His body convulsed, shoulders rounding as another ragged cough tore through him, more blood bubbling between his lips and dripping in heavy strands from his chin.
Alberto lunged forward, catching Fernando around the waist before he could collapse fully. The Alpha’s weight bore him down, massive frame trembling with the effort to remain upright, but Alberto held fast, one arm locked around Fernando’s ribs, the other gripping his bicep.
“Mira!” Alberto shouted, voice cracking with urgency. “Help!”
Fernando’s legs gave out entirely. Alberto took the full brunt of his weight, knees buckling under the strain, but he refused to let go. Blood smeared across Alberto’s shoulder where Fernando’s mouth pressed against him, each cough sending fresh sprays against skin and cloth. Alberto dragged him backward, step by labored step, toward the nearest chamber door, Fernando’s boots scraping uneven trails in the pooled blood and shattered remnants of the bloodroot jar.
The door flew open as Mira burst from an adjacent corridor, two assistants in tow carrying a litter and a satchel of bandages. She took in the scene without pause, gesturing sharply.
“Into the east ward. Now.”
Alberto half-carried, half-dragged Fernando through the doorway and into the small treatment room beyond. The Alpha collapsed onto the narrow cot, body shuddering through another convulsion. Blood poured from his mouth in a relentless stream, staining the linens crimson. Mira shoved Alberto aside and pressed a thick wad of clean cloth between Fernando’s lips, forcing him to bite down and stem the flow.
“Hold his shoulders,” she ordered. “Keep him still.”
Alberto obeyed, pinning Fernando’s upper body to the cot with all his remaining strength. The bond transmitted every pulse of agony in excruciating detail: the searing rupture of vessels in Fernando’s lungs, the corrosive burn of poison surging through shared veins. Alberto’s own body shook with the echo, ribs aching from the slaves’ blows, but he did not release his grip.
Mira worked with ruthless efficiency, pouring astringent tinctures down Fernando’s throat between coughs, packing his mouth with coagulant moss, binding his chest with tight linen wraps soaked in numbing salves. Blood saturated every cloth she touched, turning the small room into a slaughterhouse, but the hemorrhaging slowed, then stopped. Fernando’s coughs diminished to wet, shuddering gasps, his body finally lying still beneath the weight of exhaustion.
The door slammed open again.
Samael stormed into the chamber, eyes wild, face flushed with barely contained rage. His gaze locked onto Alberto, still braced over Fernando’s supine form, and fury ignited.
“You!” Samael roared. He crossed the room in three strides and seized Alberto by the collar, wrenching him backward with enough force to tear the cloth. “He bleeds because of you! Every drop that falls from his mouth, every wound that tears through his lungs, you feel it first and he pays the price!”
Alberto’s control shattered.
He twisted in Samael’s grip and shoved back with desperate, feral strength, breaking the gamma’s hold and slamming his palms into the armored chest. The impact drove Samael back two steps, shock flashing across his face.
“I did not ask for this!” Alberto snarled, voice raw and breaking, blood still streaking his face and shoulder. “I did not choose to drag him into my poison! But he did! He bound us because he would not let me die, and now you stand here blaming me for the consequences of his will?”
Samael’s fists clenched, claws extending, but Alberto advanced, trembling with the force of his outburst.
“You think I want him coughing blood every time my body fails? You think I want every bruise, every cut, every silver burn ripping through him like fresh wounds? I would tear the bond from my own heart if I could, but I cannot! And you will not make me the villain for a choice he made with his own blood!”
His voice rose to a ragged shout, echoing off the stone walls, every word laced with the pain of bruises blooming across his own skin, mirrored in the man lying motionless on the cot.
Samael’s jaw worked, fury warring with the unassailable truth of the bond’s nature. His eyes flicked to Fernando, to the blood-soaked linens and the shallow, pained breaths rattling in the Alpha’s chest. The gamma’s hands flexed, claws retracting, but the anger did not fully fade.
Mira stepped between them, hands smeared with blood, voice cutting through the tension like a blade.
“Enough.” She planted herself squarely in front of Samael, small but immovable. “The bond is forged. There is no undoing it. Every breath Alberto takes, Fernando shares. Every wound Alberto suffers, Fernando bleeds for. Blame him, and you blame your Alpha.”
Samael’s gaze shifted from Alberto to the cot, where Fernando lay pale and broken beneath layers of stained bandages. The fury drained from his expression, leaving only a hollow, haunted weariness.
Alberto sank onto a stool beside the cot, breath shuddering out of him. Blood dripped steadily from his split lip onto the floor, each drop sending a faint tremor through Fernando’s frame. He reached out and took the Alpha’s hand, fingers closing around unresponsive ones, the bond thrumming with shared exhaustion and unyielding connection.
Mira continued her work in silence, changing bloodied linens, forcing draughts between Fernando’s lips, monitoring the faint retreat of the hemorrhaging. The room filled with the copper reek of blood and the sharp bite of medicinal herbs, every sound amplified in the cramped space: the rustle of fabric, the drip of crimson into basins, the labored rhythm of Fernando’s breathing.
Samael remained standing at the foot of the cot, fists clenched at his sides, caught between the impulse to strike and the reality of what the bond demanded. Alberto held Fernando’s hand without looking away from the still figure, every tremor and shallow breath reinforcing the unbreakable tether between them.
The guards stationed outside the door stood watch in silence, ensuring no further interruptions. The slaves remained confined, their punishment sealed by the Alpha’s command. But within the blood-soaked confines of the treatment room, the true cost of that bond hung heavy in the air, a relentless reminder that no pain could be borne alone.