Chapter 44 What We Owe the Dead
Lyanna
Ruben was smiling.
It was the first thing I noticed.
Not the blood. Not the smoke. Not the screams echoing somewhere beyond us.
Just him.
Whole. Unbroken. Alive.
“Lyanna,” he said, reaching for me.
My name.
The sound of it hit harder than anything else.
I stumbled toward him, breath catching, hands shaking as I reached back. “Ruben—”
My voice came out raw. Wrong. I hadn’t heard myself speak in so long it startled me.
His fingers brushed mine.
Warm.
Real.
Relief crashed through me so violently that my knees nearly gave out.
“I’m here,” he murmured.
But something shifted.
His grip slipped.
I frowned, tightening my hold, but his hand was… wet.
I looked down.
Blood.
It ran over his skin, thick and dark, dripping between our fingers.
“No—”
The ground beneath us turned slick. The smell hit next. Iron. Smoke. Burning flesh.
My stomach lurched as the world twisted violently around us. The quiet shattered into screams—sharp, desperate, familiar.
I knew those screams. I had heard them before. I had lived them.
Ruben’s face flickered. Not whole anymore.
Broken. Eyes dull. Chest still.
“No,” I whispered, shaking my head, grabbing at him, trying to hold him together, to pull him back.
But he was slipping.
Fading.
“I couldn’t save you,” I choked. “I tried—I tried—”
His body hit the ground. The sound echoed heavily.
My breath tore from my chest as I dropped beside him, hands pressing against wounds that wouldn’t close, wouldn’t stop, wouldn’t—
Something grabbed my arm.
Hard.
The world snapped.
----
I woke with a violent gasp.
My body jerked upright, hands clutching at my chest as if I could rip the dream out of it. My breath came sharp and uneven, throat tight, stomach rolling so suddenly I doubled forward.
I turned sharply, barely managing to lean over the side of the wagon before bile burned up my throat. My body heaved, emptying what little I had eaten earlier.
It didn’t help.
The nausea lingered, sharp and relentless.
I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, breathing hard, trying to steady myself, but my fingers wouldn’t stop trembling. My other hand dropped instinctively to my stomach, fingers splayed, protective.
I’m here.
We’re here.
The dark pressed in around me. The low creak of the caravan, the distant shuffle of guards, the soft, restless movements of the others—it all felt too loud. Too close.
The scent hit me then. Faint but unmistakable.
Leather. Steel. And something warmer beneath it.
Elias.
My breath stilled.
He was close.
My head lifted slowly.
He stood just beyond the wagon, half-shadowed, his posture still but alert. Watching.
I stiffened instinctively, forcing my body still, even as my pulse raced. What was he doing? If anyone saw him near me again—
Before I could move, he stepped forward, closing the distance in a few quiet strides. His gaze flicked over me quickly—my face, my hands, the way I held myself.
Concerned.
His fingers closed lightly around my wrist. Grounding.
He didn’t speak. Just tugged gently.
Come.
I hesitated.
The memory of the night—the men, the hands, the laughter—rose like bile in my throat.
His grip tightened slightly.
Insistent.
Safe.
I pushed myself to my feet, legs unsteady, and followed.
The camp blurred past in muted shapes. No one stopped us. No one questioned him.
Of course they didn’t.
He led me straight into his tent.
The moment the flap fell shut behind us, the world narrowed again—but this time, it didn’t feel suffocating.
Warmer. Quieter. Safer.
I hated that I noticed.
He let go of me only once I was fully inside, turning immediately to secure the entrance before facing me again.
For a moment, he just looked.
His gaze moved over me—my face, my hands, the way I stood slightly hunched, one arm instinctively close to my stomach.
Tension tightened his expression.
His hands moved.
What happened tonight?
His hand lifted.
Paused.
Then gently turned my wrist over, inspecting the faint marks left behind.
My breath stilled. He was careful. So careful.
His fingers brushed lightly over my skin, checking for swelling, for damage, his movements precise but restrained—as as if he were holding himself back from something.
His gaze flicked up to mine.
Are you hurt?
I shook my head.
A lie.
His eyes narrowed slightly.
He didn’t believe me. Of course, he didn’t.
But I didn't care. I was tired, hungry, stressed and just wanted my mate.
He led me to the table and made me sit. He grabbed my hand and began treating the bruising, inspecting the raw skin and the faint splinters still embedded from earlier.
His jaw tightened.
Something in my chest twisted.
I hated how careful he was.
His hand hovered then.
Lower.
Over my stomach.
He hesitated.
I felt it—the pause, the restraint.
Then, slowly, deliberately, he placed his hand there.
Light.
Barely any pressure.
Just… there.
Warm.
Steady.
My breath caught. The child shifted faintly beneath his touch, or maybe it was my imagination. Either way, the sensation sent something sharp and unfamiliar through me.
Relief. Fear. Something else I refused to name.
I shifted in my seat.
Not enough to break contact immediately—but enough.
His hand dropped. He didn’t comment on it.
Instead, he reached for a cup on the small table, pouring something into it before offering it to me.
I hesitated. Then took it.
The liquid was warm. Bitter. It settled uneasily in my stomach, but the nausea eased slightly, the sharp edge of it dulling.
I exhaled slowly.
His gaze didn’t leave me.
You’re shaking.
I stilled.
I hadn’t realized.
My fingers tightened around the cup.
Anger flared suddenly, sharp and unexpected.
I set the cup down harder than necessary and lifted my hands.
You let them.
The signs were quick. Sharp.
His expression didn’t change.
You let them touch us. Take us.
The words burned in my chest, even without sound.
You knew.
A beat.
His jaw tightened. But he didn’t defend himself.
Didn’t look away.
I can’t undo it, he signed.
Slow.
I can only choose now.
The anger faltered. I hated that answer. Hated how… steady it was. How honest.
My hands dropped slightly, fingers curling into themselves.
You are one of them, I signed, slower now.Your people—
My chest tightened.
My people.
Ruben.
Blood.
Elias watched me, something unreadable flickering in his eyes.
He didn’t argue or deny it.
The silence stretched.
Heavy.
Then I forced my hands to move again.
One of them—tonight.
My fingers trembled.
He wasn’t—
I swallowed hard.
Not one of yours.