Chapter 7 Close Enough to Bleed
The wound isn’t deep.
That’s the first thing I tell myself as I clean the gash along Alaric’s ribs, my fingers careful, precise. It’s shallow—more a tear than a cut—but the skin around it is bruised, angry, evidence of a fight he didn’t bother to mention.
A king who bleeds in silence.
The infirmary hums around us—low voices, clinking metal, the rustle of movement—but behind the curtain, the world narrows to breath and skin and the heavy pull of the bond.
My breath.
His breath.
Too close. Far too close.
“Still,” he murmurs.
I freeze instantly, my fingers hovering just above his skin.
“I am still,” I whisper back.
A low sound leaves his throat—not quite a growl, not quite a sigh. “No. You’re… loud.”
My pulse stutters. “I don’t know what that means.”
“It means,” he says, voice roughening, “that the bond is reacting to your proximity.”
Heat coils low in my belly, sharp and unwelcome. I grit my teeth and force my focus back to the task, dipping a cloth into warm water and wringing it out.
“I can step back,” I offer.
His hand closes around my wrist before I can move.
Not rough.
Not gentle.
Certain.
The contact detonates the bond.
A rush of sensation slams through me—heat, awareness, an intimate echo of his strength that makes my knees threaten to buckle. I gasp softly, unable to stop it.
Alaric stiffens.
For a heartbeat, neither of us moves.
His thumb presses into the inside of my wrist, right where my pulse hammers wildly beneath my skin. I feel his awareness spike through the bond, sharp and startled.
“Don’t,” he says hoarsely.
“Don’t what?” I manage.
“React like that.”
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. “You’re holding my wrist.”
His jaw tightens.
Slowly, deliberately, he releases me.
The air between us feels charged now, brittle as glass.
I return to the wound, working faster than before, desperate to put space between us even as the bond pulls tighter. My magic stirs beneath my ribs, restless and irritated, like it senses the danger and wants to either fight or flee.
“You shouldn’t be this calm,” Alaric says quietly.
I glance up. “About what?”
“About being this close to me.”
I swallow. “I don’t have the luxury of panic.”
His gaze sharpens, intent. “Why?”
Because panic gets people killed.
Because fear makes mistakes.
Because I was trained to stand this close to danger and pretend my heart isn’t trying to claw its way out of my chest.
“Because I’m not fragile,” I say instead.
Something unreadable flickers across his face.
“I know,” he says.
The words land heavier than any accusation.
I finish cleaning the wound and reach for a jar of salve. As I twist the lid open, my fingers brush the inside of my boot by accident.
The vial.
My breath catches.
For a terrifying moment, my thoughts scatter—how easily I could lace the salve, how little it would take. One careful motion. One quiet decision.
The bond thrums low and warning, like it senses my intent even before I fully form it.
Alaric shifts, his muscles tightening beneath my hands. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I say too quickly.
His eyes narrow. “You hesitate.”
“I’m being careful.”
“You smell… conflicted.”
My heart slams.
Wolves. Always the scent.
I force a slow breath. “You’re injured. I don’t want to hurt you.”
The truth hides inside the lie, sharp and uncomfortable.
Alaric studies me for a long moment, then leans back slightly, giving me space I didn’t realize I was begging for.
“You’re lying about something,” he says.
My stomach drops. “Everyone lies.”
“Yes,” he agrees. “But not everyone lies like they’re standing on a blade.”
I apply the salve with careful strokes, keeping my expression neutral even as my thoughts spiral. The bond pulses again—gentler now, almost curious—like it’s watching me choose.
I finish and wrap the wound, tying it off securely.
“There,” I say softly. “It should heal cleanly.”
“Thank you,” he replies, and the sincerity in his voice makes my chest ache.
I rise to my feet quickly, stepping back before I do something reckless—before I reach for him or the vial or both.
“You should rest,” I add. “At least for today.”
Alaric stands slowly, testing his movement. His gaze never leaves my face.
“You’re good at this,” he says. “Healing. Reading people. Staying upright when the ground shifts.”
I say nothing.
He steps closer again, stopping just short of touching me. The bond hums—not urgent, not overwhelming. Intimate.
“Tell me something true,” he says quietly.
My breath catches. “What?”
“Why did you really come to my lands?”
The question hangs between us, heavy with consequence.
I look at him—at the strength he carries, the trust he hasn’t given but hasn’t taken back either. At the bond shimmering faintly between us, unforgiving and alive.
The truth burns behind my teeth.
I choose a different one.
“I came,” I say slowly, “because running was killing me.”
The bond pulses once—soft, uncertain.
Alaric searches my face, then nods, as if accepting an answer he knows is incomplete.
“For now,” he says.
He turns to leave, pausing at the curtain.
“Mira.”
“Yes?”
His gaze darkens, the wolf surfacing just beneath his control. “Don’t make me regret trusting you.”
The words strike deep.
He disappears into the infirmary beyond, leaving the air humming in his wake.
I sag against the wall, heart racing, my fingers curling into fists.
Because I already know.
The poison is still hidden.
The opportunity is closer than ever.
And the bond—damn it—is starting to care which choice I make.