When we got back to our home, we went to the main cave to seek his mother. Leon was getting more pale by the minute, his skin taking on a grayish cast that terrified me, and I was distraught, my hands shaking, my heart hammering so hard I could barely breathe. Guilt wrapped around my throat like a noose, tight and suffocating. He was dying, and I was the reason for it. We had not even become fully bonded yet, and he was dying because of me, because he had protected me, because he had killed for me.
Lisa stifled her cries when she saw him, her hand flying to her mouth, her eyes wide with horror. She kept calm even though I noticed her trembling, her whole body vibrating with the effort of holding herself together.
"What happened?" she asked, her voice shaking slightly.
"Rina’s mate," Leon managed to say, his words slurred, his eyes glassy. "Boris. And one of her new mates. A rabbit beast. They ambushed us. Wanted Krys."
"How dare she!" Lisa exclaimed, her face flushing with rage. "Neevy, grab the herbs. We must stop the bleeding."
"Lisa," I said, stepping forward, my voice steadier than I felt. "I know ways to close it up. Please have someone go to my den and grab the folded white cloth on my table. Grab animal sinew and fish bones. I am using it to stitch him back."
She looked at me, surprised, but nodded. "Go," she commanded one of the servants. "Quickly."
I knelt beside Leon, my hands hovering over his shoulder. The wound was too wide for cloth alone. The flesh gaped open, red and trembling, spilling heat into the cold air. I could see the white of bone, the severed muscle, the torn tendons. It was worse than I thought. So much worse.
I swallowed hard and reached for the supplies the servant brought, my fingers finding the strip of dried sinew soaking in boiled water. I had prepared it weeks ago, never thinking I would use it for this, never thinking I would be sewing up my mate’s torn flesh.
The tendon had softened just enough beneath my fingers, pliable but strong. I split it into a thinner cord, slicked it between my palms, then threaded it through the eye carved into the fish bone needle. It was crude, primitive, but it would hold. It had to hold.
"Hold him still," I whispered.
Lisa moved to Leon’s side, her hands pressing on his chest, her voice low and soothing as she spoke to him, cooing as a mother trying to console her child. I positioned the needle at the edge of the wound, took a breath, and pushed.
The first stitch dragged through flesh with sickening resistance, the sinew pulling the torn edges together. Leon screamed, his body arching, and I forced myself not to flinch, not to stop, not to think about the pain I was causing him. Linen would tear. Hair would snap. But sinew held. Sinew would keep him together, keep him alive, keep him from bleeding out on this stone floor.
I worked quickly, methodically, the medical knowledge at hand, and the survival videos I watched rising up through my panic. Stitch after stitch, pulling the mangled flesh closed, the sinew darkening with his blood, my fingers slick and trembling. The wound was deep, ragged, but I closed it, inch by inch, until the bleeding slowed, then stopped, until the flesh lay together in a neat, ugly seam.
When I finished, I sat back, my whole body shaking, my hands covered in his blood. I had done it. I had saved him. But the cost, the guilt, the weight of what he had suffered for me, pressed down on my chest until I could not breathe.
The blood drying sticky on my fingers. The stitching held, the bleeding stopped, but the danger was not past. Infection could set in, fever could take him, and all my work would be for nothing. I needed to clean the wound properly, to make a salve that would fight the poison trying to take root in his flesh.
Lisa helped me move him to our den, laying him on fresh furs, his body pale and still. I sent a servant for hot water, for clean cloths, for the herbs I knew would cleanse and protect. While I waited, I stripped away his torn clothing, revealing the full extent of his injuries. Not just the shoulder, but claw marks raked across his chest, his side, his thigh. He was a canvas of pain, and I was the only one who could paint him whole again.
When the water came, steaming and clean, I added salt, then the crushed leaves of the plant Lisa called woundwort. I used the linen I had made, soft and sterile, soaked in the solution, and I washed him. Every stroke was gentle, reverent, washing away the blood and dirt, revealing the true damage beneath. He stirred, groaning, his eyes fluttering open and closed, delirious with pain.
"Krys," he whispered, his voice barely audible.
"I am here," I soothed, pressing a cool cloth to his forehead. "I am here, Leon. Rest now."
By evening, the fever came. It rose fast and hot, his skin burning beneath my touch, his teeth chattering despite the heat pouring off him. I wiped him down with cool water, watching the cloth steam against his chest, but the fever would not break. He shivered, his whole body shaking, his lips turning blue even as his skin blazed.
I tried more blankets. I tried more cool water. Nothing worked.
Then I remembered. Body heat. The most basic, primal medicine. When the body burns and shivers at once, it needs another body to regulate, to share the heat, to bring it down from within.
I did not hesitate. I stripped naked, pulling off my furs, my shift, everything. Then I peeled back the blankets and stripped him too, careful of his wounds, until we were both bare, skin to skin. I climbed onto the furs beside him, pressed my entire length against him, my cooler skin against his burning flesh, my arms wrapping around his chest, my legs tangling with his.
He gasped at the contact, his body arching, then slowly, slowly, he relaxed into me. I held him, my heart hammering against his back, my breath stirring his hair, and I willed my body to absorb his heat, to share my strength, to bring him back from the edge.
I started to cry silently, hating that I was the main reason for him to be hurt. His uninjured hand found mine in the darkness, his fingers gripping tight, anchoring me.
"It is okay," he whispered, his voice rough but certain. "We are okay. I will be okay."
I choked on a sob, pressing my face into his shoulder, my tears hot against his cooling skin. "You have to be," I managed, my voice breaking. "You have to be, Leon. I cannot lose you."
We stayed like that for hours, fused together, until his shivering stopped, until his breathing evened, until the fever broke and he slept, his body finally at rest.
That night, as he rested in our den, his chest rising and falling with steady breaths, I could not sleep. I asked the servants to grab medicinal herbs from the storage, specific ones I had seen Lisa use, others I had learned about in my old life. Comfrey for healing, calendula for inflammation, honey for its natural antibacterial properties, lavender to prevent scarring.
I worked by candlelight, crushing the herbs with a stone mortar and pestle, mixing them with rendered fat and beeswax until I had a thick, fragrant salve. It smelled of earth and flowers, of medicine and hope. I tested it on my own skin, making sure it would not irritate, then I applied it gently to his wounds, the stitches I had made, the angry red lines where claws had raked him.
If I did this right, if I tended him daily, changed the dressings, kept the salve applied, he should not have any scarring. At least not the kind that would cripple him, not the long ugly keloid that would otherwise form on his shoulder. He would heal clean, smooth, whole.
I sat beside him through the night, watching over him, my hand resting on his uninjured shoulder, my heart full of guilt and gratitude and something else, something warm and terrifying that I was not ready to name. But I knew, as the dawn light crept through the window, that I would do anything for him. Anything at all.
---
When morning came, gray light filtering through the curtains, I rose from the furs where I had kept vigil through the night. Leon slept still, his breathing even, the fever broken but leaving him weak as a newborn cub. My body ached, my eyes burned, but I could not rest. Not yet. Not while he needed nourishment to rebuild his strength.
With the help of the servants, I went to the cooking area and made chicken rice porridge, the remedy my grandmother had taught me when I was small. I took the leftover rice from the night before, added fresh water, and set it to simmer until the grains broke down into a creamy, comforting soup. I added shreds of roasted chicken, soft and easy to swallow, a pinch of salt, some of the healing herbs that would restore his blood without overwhelming his stomach. The smell filled the small space, warm and savory, a promise of life continuing.
I carried the bowl myself, refusing to let anyone else feed him. He was awake when I entered, his dark eyes finding me immediately, tracking my every movement with a focus that made my heart clench.
"Krys," he said, his voice barely above a whisper, "do not overexert yourself taking care of me. You need to rest."
I settled beside him on the furs, smiling despite the exhaustion weighing down my bones. I dipped the wooden spoon into the porridge, blew on it to cool it, and brought it to his lips. "Do not worry about me. Rest. I am fine. I will make sure you are right as new."
He ate slowly, each swallow an effort, but he took every bite I offered, his eyes never leaving my face. I wiped his mouth with a soft linen cloth, then his hands, then his chest, the gentle touches becoming a rhythm, a language we were learning together.
As I worked, I paused, the spoon hovering over the bowl. I looked at him, really looked at him, and felt something shift inside my chest, something warm and terrifying that I had been trying not to name. It felt so wrong to me, so foreign. I had never loved multiple people at once. Hyunwoo was the only man I had ever dated, the only one I had given myself to, the only one I had thought I would ever want. Before all this, I was conservative, rigid even, raised on fairy tales of one true love, one soulmate, one heart for one heart.
Sure, I had naughty thoughts, fantasies, and curiosity about what else might be out there. But I never acted on them because Hyunwoo never brought that out in me. He was selfish in bed, quick and clumsy and finished before I could even begin. He never made me feel beautiful, never made me feel wanted, never made me feel safe enough to explore.
But Ravin was everything. Sexy and enthusiastic and reverent, a student of my body, eager to please, desperate to learn. With him, I felt comfortable, powerful, adored. He had awakened something in me I did not know existed.
And now there was Leon. Leon who waited so patiently, who asked for nothing, who had nearly died for me without hesitation. I came to care for him deeply, more than I had allowed myself to admit. The thought of him dying, of his blood on my hands, of his voice silenced forever, did not sit well at all. It sat like a stone in my gut, heavy and unbearable.
The aversion I had about sharing a bed with him, about giving him the same intimacy I gave Ravin, no longer held. It seemed petty now, foolish, a luxury I could not afford when life was so fragile, when death had come so close.
I stroked his uninjured arm, my fingers tracing the muscle there, feeling him shiver at my touch. "When you feel better," I said, my voice steady despite my racing heart, "let us truly become bonded mates. In every way."
His eyes went wide, dark pools of shock and hope. Tears spilled over, tracking down his temples into his hair. "Are you sure?" he whispered, his voice cracking. "If it is guilt, if it is obligation, if it is anything like that, please. Do not. I want you, Krys. I have wanted you since the moment I saw you. But not if you do not truly want to. Not like that."
I set the bowl aside. I leaned down, my heart hammering, and I kissed him. It was the first time I had ever done so, the first time my lips had touched his, and his mouth was soft and trembling beneath mine, warm and hesitant and infinitely sweet. I lingered there, tasting him, letting him taste me, letting him feel the truth of my words.
I pulled back just enough to look into his eyes, my hand cupping his cheek. "I want to," I assured him, meaning it with every fiber of my being. "I realized last night, holding you, stitching you, terrified you would die in my arms, that the thought of losing you would devastate me more than I can comprehend. Once we become mates, truly become mates, you are not allowed to die on me, Leon. Do you understand? You are not allowed to leave me."
He smiled then, through his tears, a radiant thing that lit up his whole face. "I promise," he whispered, his hand coming up to cover mine, his fingers lacing with my own. "I promise I will not die. I promise I will stay. I promise I will love you every day you give me, and every day after that, for as long as I draw breath."
I held his hand, pressed my forehead to his, and let the tears fall. Not tears of grief, not tears of guilt, but tears of acceptance, of surrender, of a heart finally big enough to hold them both.