Chapter 112
The healer's hut was quiet now that the council had adjourned and the pack had scattered back to their dens. The lanterns had been turned low, leaving only the soft orange flicker from the hearth to light the room. The scent of comfrey and lavender still lingered, but it was fainter, mixed with the clean sweat of exhaustion and the faint metallic tang of blood from Hardin's bandages.
Rhianna had insisted Alden leave them alone for a while. The old healer had grumbled something about stitches tearing and fever spiking, but he'd gone anyway, muttering that young love was worse than silver poisoning. The door clicked shut behind him, and the world outside felt suddenly far away.
Hardin was propped up against a pile of pillows on the narrow bed, shirt open over the fresh white wraps that crisscrossed his torso and back. The red seeping through in places had slowed, but it was still there—a stubborn reminder. His face was pale, shadows under his eyes, but when Rhianna sat on the edge of the mattress beside him, he managed a small, crooked smile.
She reached out without thinking, brushing the damp hair back from his forehead. His skin was warm—too warm—but steady.
"You okay?" she asked softly.
Hardin nodded once. "Yeah. I'm fine."
She studied him. "You look like hell."
"Feel like it too," he admitted. "But I'm here. That's what counts."
Rhianna let her hand drop to his, fingers threading through his. The calluses on his palms were rougher than she remembered, marked by years of whatever roads he'd walked while she was gone. She traced one scar with her thumb.
"You didn't have to drag yourself to the council chamber," she said. "Alden was ready to chain you to the bed."
"Couldn't let them talk to you like that." His voice was low, rough from pain and disuse. "Not after everything."
She squeezed his hand. "I can handle elders. I've handled worse."
"I know." He looked at their joined hands for a long moment. Then he exhaled, slow and deliberate. "Rhianna... I have a confession to make."
She tilted her head, a small chuckle escaping despite the heaviness in the air. "A confession? What, you stole Alden's best herbs while he wasn't looking?"
Hardin's mouth twitched, but the humor didn't reach his eyes. He looked at her—really looked—and the weight in his gaze made her smile fade.
"Everything that happened in the palace," he said quietly, "was done by me."
Rhianna blinked. "What do you mean?"
He didn't look away. "The hunters didn't attack the palace. There were no hunters. I sent Garrick—old friend from the border packs—to round up a few reliable wolves. They dressed the part, made noise, broke things. I needed chaos. I needed Kairo distracted, far enough away that I could get you alone long enough for you to remember."
Rhianna's breath caught. She stared at him, trying to piece it together. "You... staged it?"
"Yes."
"And the gold?" Her voice was barely above a whisper. "The theft that got you—"
"I stole it," he said. "Myself. Walked right into the treasury during the commotion, took a chest of their ceremonial coins. Enough to make it look like a real raid. Enough to make the guards furious. They caught me on purpose. I let them. Two hundred lashes because I wanted you to see me. Really see me. I wanted the feelings you had for me—the ones buried under all that silver and amnesia—to come back. I couldn't lose you again, Rhianna. Not to some prince. Not to anyone."
The room felt smaller. The fire popped once, sending a spark up the chimney.
Rhianna pulled her hand back slowly, not out of anger, but because she needed the space to breathe. "Wow. You did all of that. You put yourself through... all of that. Why?"
Hardin swallowed. His voice cracked on the first word. "Because I love you."
He said it simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
"When you're in love," he went on, "you tend to do silly things. Stupid things. Desperate things. Trust me—I don't regret it. Not one lash. Not one mile I carried you. Not one second I spent bleeding so you'd look at me and remember who we were before the river took you."
Rhianna's eyes stung. She pressed her lips together, fighting the wave that rose in her chest.
"You hurt yourself, Hardin," she said, voice thick. "I was worried sick about you. Watching them drag you away, hearing the whips... I thought I'd lose you right there in that courtyard. And I wouldn't have married Kairo anyway. I was already fighting it. I was already starting to remember—bits and pieces. Your voice in the dark, the way you smelled like pine and home. I was getting there."
He reached for her hand again. This time she let him take it.
"I know," he said softly. "But I couldn't wait. I couldn't risk it. Kairo had his guards everywhere. The wedding was set for the next moon. I had to make you see me before it was too late."
She looked down at their hands. His knuckles were bruised, skin split in places from the manacles. She lifted his hand to her lips, kissed the worst of the cuts.
Then he moved—slow, careful, wincing as the bandages pulled. He wrapped his arms around her, drawing her against his chest despite the pain it must have cost him. She went willingly, tucking her face into the crook of his neck. He smelled like herbs and sweat and him—always him.
"I'm sorry," he murmured into her hair. "I'm so damn sorry for scaring you. For making you worry. But I'd do it again. Every stupid, reckless thing. Because you're here now. You're safe. You're home."
Rhianna pulled back just enough to look at him. Tears had slipped down her cheeks without her noticing. She didn't wipe them away.
"I can't even be angry at you right now," she said, half-laugh, half-sob. "You idiot."
He gave a small, pained chuckle. "Yeah. Guilty."
She cupped his face, thumbs brushing the stubble along his jaw. "You shouldn't do that next time. No more grand gestures that get you whipped half to death. No more staging raids or stealing gold or playing martyr. Promise me."
Hardin searched her eyes. "I promise I'll try. But if it ever comes down to losing you again... I make no guarantees."
She leaned in, forehead resting against his. "Then we'll make sure it never comes to that."
They stayed like that for a long time—breathing the same air, hearts thudding unevenly against each other. The fire crackled low. Outside, the wind moved through the trees, carrying distant howls from the pack on night patrol. The world kept turning, but in this small, warm room, time felt suspended.
Rhianna shifted, careful not to jar his wounds, and curled against his side. He draped one arm around her shoulders, fingers tracing slow circles on her upper arm.
"Tell me something good," she said after a while.
Hardin thought for a moment. "Remember the summer we were fifteen? You dared me to climb the old lightning-struck oak behind the training grounds. I got halfway up, branch snapped, and I fell straight into the creek. Soaked to the bone. You laughed so hard you cried."
Rhianna smiled against his shoulder. "You looked like a drowned rat."
"And you still kissed me anyway. First time. Tasted like blackberries and trouble."
She laughed softly. "Still do, probably."
He tilted her chin up with two fingers. His eyes were soft, tired, but bright. "I missed that laugh. Missed you."
"I missed you too," she whispered. "Even when I didn't know who I was missing."
He kissed her then—slow, careful, like he was memorizing every second. No rush. No desperation. Just them, finally on the same side of the river.
When they broke apart, she rested her head on his chest again, listening to the steady beat beneath the bandages.
"Two days," she murmured. "Then we finish this. Brittany. The proof. The pack."
"Two days," he echoed. "And after that?"
"After that," she said, "we figure out what comes next. Together. No more running. No more hiding. Just us."
Hardin pressed his lips to the top of her head. "Just us."
The fire burned lower. The hut grew darker. But neither of them moved to light another lantern.
They had time now.
They had each other.