Chapter 230: The Royal Heirs #51: Theodore
I carried Emma through the palace corridors, her weight both familiar and terrifyingly light in my arms. Blood—mine and hers—had dried in dark patches across our skin, flaking off with each lurching step I took. The wound in my side screamed with every movement, but I refused to let anyone else carry my mate. Aeson paced anxiously within me, his golden presence dimmed with grief over our damaged bond. Where Emma's consciousness had once twined with mine, warm and ever-present, now only the faintest whisper remained—like trying to hear a heartbeat through a concrete wall. We were still connected, but barely, the golden thread between us unraveled to its final, most tenuous strand.
“Your Majesty, please—" a doctor tried to intercept me, hands outstretched toward Emma's limp form.
"No," I growled, the single syllable laced with Aeson's authority. The doctor stepped back immediately, recognising the futility of arguing with a Lycan whose mate was injured. Instead, he hurried ahead to alert the medical team of our approach.
Behind me, Elijah and Elena supported each other, their footsteps uneven but determined. Elijah's face was a mask of controlled anguish, his sister's blood still staining his shirt where he had carried her before relinquishing her to me. Elena leaned heavily against him despite his clearly dislocated shoulder, her own injuries rendering her pale and unsteady.
We turned the final corner to the medical suite, where staff waited with barely contained urgency. The doors hissed open automatically, the sterile white interior a stark contrast to the blood and dirt we brought with us from Blackwood Forest.
"King Theodore, we need to—"
"Treat her first," I cut off the head physician, moving directly to the prepared bed in the center of the room. I lowered Emma with excruciating gentleness, my body protesting the movement as fresh blood seeped through my makeshift bandage. The moment she left my arms, I felt even more disconnected from her, as if physical contact was now the only thing tethering us together. I grabbed her hand immediately, unwilling to sever that last link.
"Your Majesty, your wound—"
"Can wait." I didn't look away from Emma's face, so still and pale against the white sheets. The ragged wound on her neck where Benjamin had tried to mark her looked even worse under the harsh medical lighting—a chunk of flesh torn away, the edges already attempting to heal but failing due to the magical nature of mating bites.
Doctors swarmed around us, checking vitals, cleaning the wound, inserting IVs with practiced efficiency. Someone tried to guide me to another bed, but I snarled, Aeson's protective rage bubbling too close to the surface for civility.
Mate hurt. Stay close. Aeson's thoughts were simpler than usual, reduced to primal imperatives by trauma and the damaged bond.
A nurse approached with scissors, cutting away Emma's bloodied clothes to check for additional injuries. Her rounded belly emerged, skin stretched taut over our daughters. My breath caught in my throat—had they been harmed? Could Benjamin's attack have affected them somehow?
"The twins," I said hoarsely. "Are they...?"
"Amelia is on her way," the head physician assured me, pressing a clean bandage to my side despite my attempts to wave him off. "She'll check on them immediately."
As if summoned by her name, Amelia swept into the room, her usual formal demeanor tempered with genuine concern as she took in the scene. She moved directly to Emma, eyes cataloging the wound on her neck, the unconscious state, the monitors already beeping with vital signs.
"I need to check the babies," she announced, already pulling the portable ultrasound machine closer. "King Theodore, if you could—"
"I'm not leaving her side," I stated flatly, though I did shift slightly to give Amelia better access while maintaining my grip on Emma's hand.
Amelia didn't argue, simply nodding as she squeezed gel onto Emma's abdomen and placed the wand against her skin. The screen flickered to life, and I held my breath, Aeson going completely still within me as we waited to see our daughters.
The image cleared, and there they were—two perfect forms nestled together in their shared space. My throat tightened at the sight of them, seemingly oblivious to the trauma their mother had endured. As we watched, one stretched a tiny hand toward the other, their movements synchronised as if dancing to music only they could hear.
"They're hugging," I whispered, wonder momentarily displacing grief. Both were sucking their thumbs, their faces turned toward each other in a tableau of sisterly connection that brought unexpected tears to my eyes.
"The twins are absolutely fine," Amelia confirmed, her professional tone softening as she studied the screen. "Perfect little bundles, strong heartbeats, excellent movement. Whatever happened to the queen hasn't affected them at all."
Relief washed through me, so powerful I nearly collapsed. One of the doctors took advantage of my momentary weakness to press more firmly against my bullet wound, cleaning it with something that burned like liquid fire. I barely registered the pain, transfixed by the image of my daughters, whole and safe despite everything.
"They're perfect, my queen," I murmured, leaning closer to Emma's ear, hoping somehow she could hear me through her unconsciousness. "Perfect."
Her eyelids fluttered at the sound of my voice, though she didn't wake fully. The monitor tracking her heartbeat showed a slight increase—she was responding to me, even without our bond.
"I'll fix this," I promised her, my voice too low for anyone else to hear. "I'll find a way to restore what we've lost. Whatever it takes."
The medical team worked around us, cleaning and bandaging Emma's neck, checking her vitals, preparing to stitch my side. In the adjacent room, I could hear Elijah and Elena being treated, their voices occasionally rising in protest when doctors suggested separating them. They understood—the need to stay close after trauma, the visceral comfort of touch when everything else had been upended.
A doctor approached with a syringe. "Your Majesty, we need to sedate you to remove the bullet and—"
"No sedation," I cut him off. "Local anesthetic only. I need to be conscious when she wakes."
He looked like he wanted to argue but thought better of it, nodding reluctantly before preparing a different injection. The numbing agent spread cold tendrils through my side, dulling the sharp agony to a distant throb.
Amelia printed a picture from the ultrasound, placing it on the small table beside Emma's bed. "For when she wakes," she explained softly.
I nodded my thanks, unable to tear my gaze from Emma's face, searching for any sign of consciousness. Without our bond, I couldn't feel her emotions, couldn't sense her pain or fear or relief. The absence was like missing a limb—a phantom ache where something vital should be.
Will find way, Aeson insisted within me, his determination cutting through the fog of pain and worry. Mate still ours. Pups still ours.
"Yes," I whispered, squeezing Emma's hand as doctors began the delicate process of extracting the bullet from my side. "Still ours."
And I would tear apart heaven and earth to make that true again in every sense.