Chapter 8 Final treatment
Zara’s POV
Aiden opened the box. A pungent smell of dead grass immediately hit my nose.
He set the box beside the bed and stepped toward me. “You need to step out.”
Something felt off.
I had always been present for most of Tristan’s treatments. He had never asked me to leave. Tristan seemed to find my presence comforting.
And yet… now, Aiden demanded it.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“Just leave,” Tristan murmured.
He lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Aiden’s hand pointed firmly at the door.
“This… final treatment,” Tristan whispered, his words weak, fading with each breath.
“Your final treatment… There's a final treatment for you?”
Aiden sighed and returned to the box, pulling out scissors, cotton wool, and small jars filled with substances I couldn’t begin to identify. He placed everything neatly on the table beside the bed. Then, he brought out a small clay plate.
His gaze snapped to me. “You’re not supposed to stay. This isn’t for you.”
“I know it isn't for me, but—”
“Tristan.” He patted Tristan, who seemed to be falling asleep. “Tell her.”
Tristan struggled to open his eyes. When he finally sat up, his face looked swollen, drawn.
“It’ll buy more time,” he rasped. “More time before the feral side takes over.”
The state of his body kept fluctuating—all these the perks of the curse, I supposed. He could be in any condition at any moment. I always reminded myself I could never get used to this.
“Okay, yeah.”
“Yes, go.” Aiden lit the tiny wool in the small clay plate he'd brought out from the box.
And the smell of dead grass intensified in the room as I stepped out, sneezing without control of myself.
I pressed my eye to the small hole by the doorknob, unwilling to give up on seeing how he endured it.
His eyes were closed, but I could feel the pain coursing through him. He always tried to hide it—he hated looking weak, even as an Alpha.
Yet… something else lingered on his face. It wasn’t just the pain.
He could have endured through it and didn't flinch or let his eyes produce tears because of it, but the tears always flowed.
It was something more.
One of his darkest memories began to surface before me.
He had stormed from his parents’ room, hands trembling as if struck by electricity, teeth chattering, cold sweat slicking his face.
“Father…” he called, voice breaking, unable to finish.
The gammas who acted as guards in the palace had rushed to meet him, but he still couldn't put out words to them.
“They are… They are on the bare floor… Blood.” His fingers dug into his thick hair, brushing through it, and walking down to scratch his face.
His reaction drew attention from everyone around the Alpha’s palace. At that time, his father, Henry, was the Alpha. The pack elders who stood outside came inside the main hall to see him in that dreadful state.
That was when they saw blood stains on his shirt.
“One about your parents?” one of the elders had asked him.
But he couldn't speak.
They got into his parents’ room.
What they found was a grim scene. Blood covered the floor like a replacement for the tiles. His parents’ pulse? None of that existed.
They were gone, lifeless on the cold floor.
I’d seen this event unfold as my father was the beta of the pack—second in command to the Alpha. I was there, even though I was much younger than him.
I might have been a little above ten.
Watching him now, lying on the bed, teeth clenched as Aiden worked, I understood: the true source of his pain was not the scissors, the needles, nor the curse itself. It was his parents’ death—the wound that still tore through him.
All of these sucked.
Aiden pulled off his gloves and placed them on the table. He was done.
He came to the door, and I quickly stood upright, turning my eyes away from the small hole at the door.
He pulled the door open. “Zara… You’ve been crying?”
“Oh…” I wiped my palms across my face.
I didn't realize tears left my eyes.
“Those tears are just useless.” He sighed, shaking his head. “If you had convinced him enough into performing the Scarlet Ascension, using that human’s essence as his cure, all these years wouldn't have been needed.”
I nodded. I couldn't be offended that he blamed me.
I took Tristan as my responsibility.
“I know… I know, but how is he?” I stood by the doorpost observing Tristan from the distance, scared to hear bad news.
“He has a few more days to stay normal, and after that… hmmm.”
“After that, then what?”
“His time of sanity would be reduced to just an hour a day. The rest for the feral state.”
“How many days does he have before that?”
“Maybe five, maybe a week.”
He left, giving me no room to ask more eager questions. Soon after, one of the maids came in to clean the mess on the floor—spilled substances from the bottles, and the used hand gloves from the table.
After that, when it was just Tristan and I, I laid on the bed.
His eyes flicked open. I smiled, relief flooding me—but it faltered when I noticed his frown.
“Celine.” He bolted upright, scanning the room. “Where is she?”
My face twitched. “The… human?”
“Yes. Where is she?”
A sound—like glass shattering—echoed in my ears. Not real glass, but the sound of broken expectations. He had said he could tolerate my presence only if she remained far away. Her room wasn’t near his… or was she closer than I thought?
Impossible. She hadn’t left.
“Her scent… pineapples.” He swung his legs over the bed, gripping the edge. “I need to see her.”
My fingers tingled with heat. So this is the bond between mates… this strong.