Chapter 189

Ronan

The days blurred together into a cycle of motion, and I forced myself to keep moving. If I stopped, if I let the fear, it would devour me whole.

The herb satchel on the shelf was already heavy, but I added another bundle of dried yarrow for bleeding, knotting the twine with clumsy fingers.

My palms were cracked, raw from grinding roots and hauling wood, but I ignored the sting. Pain meant nothing if it kept Lila alive.

I traded favors and work with villagers for flour, for salted meat, for jars of honey to tempt her appetite when nothing else would stay down. They asked questions, of course, but I silenced them with a look.

Better they think me an overprotective mate than risk word spreading of where we were.

Damon didn’t know where Lila was, and didn’t know we were together. It was safer to pretend to be a couple, even if it shredded my heart everyday knowing we truly weren’t.

When no one was watching, I limped. The wound from the last fight burned deep in my side and thigh, a constant throb that threatened to drag me under. But around Lila, my steps were steady, my expression calm. She had enough to worry about, she didn’t need me added to that list.

I sharpened weapons in the evenings, steel singing against stone. I checked the escape routes again and again until I could walk them blindfolded. If danger came, I’d get them out.

And still, the hours crawled closer to her due date.

That night, she sat by the fire, her hair loose around her shoulders, the glow painting her skin gold. For a moment, I just watched her—the way she shifted her hand over her stomach as though already soothing the child inside. The sight carved something sharp through me, equal parts awe and terror.

I crouched at her side, resting my forearms on my knees. “Lila,” I said, keeping my voice low, steady. “It’s time. You need to take the antidote. If not for you, then for the baby.”

She turned her face toward me, eyes fierce, lips set in that stubborn line I knew too well.

“No.”

Just one word, quiet but immovable.

I swallowed, my chest tight. “You don’t understand the risk. If the poison lingers—”

“I do understand,” she cut in. Her hand pressed firmer to her stomach, protective. “And I won’t gamble with this child’s life. Not even for mine.”

The air between us crackled, filled with everything I wanted to say and everything I couldn’t.

I nodded once, forcing my features smooth. “All right.”

She searched my face, maybe expecting me to argue further. But I just pushed myself up, turning to check the firewood instead. My back hid the twist of my mouth from the ache in my ribs.

Her refusal was a blade sliding between them. I’d asked out of desperation, and she’d stood firmly with conviction. I should admire her strength. And part of me did. But another part, the selfish part, wanted to shake her, to demand she think of herself, of what could happen.

Instead, I stacked the wood, steadying my hands against the tremor creeping in. “We’ll manage,” I said, and I made it sound easy, casual.

Behind me, she sighed, the sound weary but resigned. “I know.”

And just like that, the conversation was over.

I stayed up longer than I needed, pretending to check snares, to rewrap bandages, to do anything that kept me from sitting with the hollow ache spreading through my chest.

Outwardly, I was calm. Reliable. Her self-appointed protector.

But beneath the mask, every refusal, every step toward her inevitable death, felt like another stone piled onto my back.

And still, I bore it. Because my Queen deserved nothing less.

The cabin felt empty after she drifted to sleep. Her breathing evened, soft and steady, the rise and fall of her calming to my frayed nerves. I sat in the shadows, watching her for longer than I should, letting the rhythm anchor me.

But anchors give way too, and when I finally let my shoulders sag, the weight of everything came crashing down.

I dragged myself to the corner, away from the fire. The wound in my side pulsed with every step, hot and sharp, until my vision blurred. I braced against the wall, lowering myself slowly onto the stool with a hiss.

My hands trembled as I unwrapped the bandage. The fabric was stiff with dried blood, the skin beneath swollen and angry.

I should have said something; should have admitted weeks ago that it hadn’t healed right. But how could I? Lila already carried enough with her body stretched thin by the child, her spirit pressed by memories of everything Damon and the court had taken.

I couldn’t add my weakness to that list.

So I worked in silence, dabbing the wound with spirits that burned, biting my lip until the copper taste of blood filled my mouth. Sweat broke across my forehead.

My body wanted to fold in on itself, to give up, but I forced the motions to be steady: clean, bind, tie. Again and again, until it was done.

When the pain eased into a dull throb, my thoughts slipped into places I avoided during the day. Damon’s face filled my mind. The male I had once sworn my loyalty to, the King I’d betrayed.

I remembered his fury when he cast me out, the look in his eyes as though I were nothing more than a knife driven into his back. Part of me still bled for that wound too. Another part whispered that I’d do it all again, if it meant Lila’s freedom.

Exile was easier to bear than regret.

But what if it wasn’t enough? What if I’d led her into a life of running, of hiding, only for my body to fail when she needed me most? Or for hers to do the same.

I glanced at her sleeping form through the open door of the bedroom. Her face softened by dreams, one hand resting loosely over her chest. My throat tightened. She trusted me with everything: her safety, her child’s future, her very survival.

And here I was, breaking alone in the dark.

My chest heaved once, hard, and I pressed a fist to my sternum as though I could hold myself together with sheer force of will.

Fear gnawed at my bones, whispering truths I didn’t want to face: that I might not survive this. That the wound might take me before I saw the child born. That she might wake one morning to find me cold and gone, just another body sacrificed in her name.

My sister, the healer, looked at it while she was here. She was the only one I would trust knowing where Lila was, and that I was with her.

Whatever poison was clawed into my wound by that Rogue, she had told me, was resistant to a wolf’s fast healing. It would likely heal, eventually, she guessed. But she needed time to do more research. Time I might not have.

I closed my eyes, forcing the panic down, clutching at the only thing that still kept me in check. My promise.

Protect her. Protect the child.

If death wanted me, it would have to tear me from the threshold first. It would have to carve me away from her with claws and teeth stronger than mine.

Because I would not leave her undefended. Not while I still drew breath.

Protect her. Protect the child.

The vow settled in me but the fear still gnawed. I let it fill me, sharpen me, remind me of the cost if I failed.

I forced myself to stand and walk to her side. Gripping the blanket that had fallen to the floor, I gently lay it around her sleeping form, then added wood to the fire so it wouldn’t burn out before dawn. She never stirred.

Then I sank back into the chair, one hand pressed to my thigh to keep the bleeding at bay, the other gripping the hilt of the knife at my belt.

Exhaustion dragged at me, but I stayed awake, eyes fixed on the door, on the shadows, on the world that would gladly take her from me if I slipped.

If death came, it would find me standing.

And standing, I would make sure it never reached her.