Chapter 7: Ten Minutes

The night air hit Kael's face like a slap, cold and clean after the suffocating darkness of the inn. He gulped it down, trying to clear the scent of blood and death from his lungs, but it was useless. The carnage clung to him like a second skin.

None of it mattered.

Because Lyra had stopped breathing.

Not completely—her chest still rose and fell in shallow, irregular gasps—but each breath was weaker than the last, each gap between them longer. Her heartbeat stuttered against his chest, a dying bird trapped behind her ribs.

*No.*

Kael's own heart seized with terror so pure it whited out thought. The bond between them thrummed with distress, sending waves of her agony straight into his chest. He could *feel* her slipping away, feel the life draining from her body moment by moment.

Ten minutes, his battlefield training supplied with cold clarity. Maybe less. That's how long she had before the damage became irreversible.

He ran.

His horse was tied at the treeline where he'd left it—a massive black destrier trained for war, not spooked by the scent of blood or the presence of predators. Kael reached it in seconds, Nyx keeping pace at his heels despite her limp.

"Come on, come on," he muttered, shifting Lyra's weight so he could swing into the saddle one-handed. She was limp as a doll, her head lolling against his shoulder. The bite mark on her throat had stopped bleeding—his saliva had sealed it, as nature intended—but her wrists were still weeping blood and infection, the silver wounds refusing to close.

He settled her across his lap, one arm locked around her waist to keep her secure, and grabbed the reins with his free hand. Every movement sent fresh pain through his burned palms, but he ignored it. His injuries were nothing. *Hers* were everything.

Nyx leaped up behind him in a move that should have been impossible for a wolf her size, settling on the horse's haunches with preternatural balance.

Kael dug his heels in, and the destrier bolted.

The road flew by in a blur of darkness and trees. The nearest town with a healer was fifteen miles north—too far, his instincts screamed. She wouldn't last that long. The palace was fifty miles southeast, and even riding at a killing pace, he couldn't make it in time.

*Think,* he commanded himself. *There has to be—*

The hunting lodge. His father's private retreat, abandoned for years but maintained by caretakers. It was only three miles west of the main road, maybe four miles from their current position. Remote enough that no one would think to look there. And more importantly, it would have supplies. Medical supplies. The old king—his grandfather—had been a warrior who believed in being prepared for anything. If the stores hadn't been looted...

It was their only chance.

Kael yanked the reins, sending the horse careening off the main road onto a narrow hunting trail barely visible in the moonlight. Branches whipped past, one catching his cheek and opening a cut that bled freely. He didn't slow down.

"Lyra," he said, his voice rough with desperation. "Lyra, can you hear me?"

No response. Her eyes were closed, her face slack. Only the threadbare pulse at her throat told him she still lived.

*Eight minutes,* his mind supplied. *Maybe seven.*

The bond between them pulsed weakly, their connection so new it hadn't fully solidified. If she died now, before the bond could properly form, would it kill him? Part of him hoped so. Part of him couldn't imagine surviving if she didn't.

"You don't get to die," he told her fiercely, holding her tighter against his chest. "Do you hear me? You survived that place, survived years of torture and pain—you don't get to die now that you're free. I won't allow it."

Her head fell back, exposing the pale column of her throat. The mark he'd left stood out starkly against her skin—two perfect punctures surrounded by bruising that would eventually form a permanent scar. His claim. His *mate mark*.

But what good was claiming her if she died in his arms?

The thought sent such a wave of agony through him that his vision blurred. The bond thrashed in his chest like a wounded animal, *screaming* at him to fix this, to save her, to do *anything* but sit there uselessly while his mate slipped away.

The trees opened up ahead, and Kael saw the lodge—a sprawling timber structure with dark windows and an air of long abandonment. He rode straight up to the entrance, barely bothering to rein in before he swung down with Lyra cradled against his chest.

The door was locked. He kicked it open with enough force to tear the hinges from the frame.

Inside was darkness and dust and the musty smell of disuse. Kael's eyes adjusted instantly, wolf-sight turning the black interior to shades of grey. There—a couch by the massive stone fireplace. He laid Lyra down on it as gently as he could, then wheeled toward the back rooms where his grandfather had kept his supplies.

*Six minutes.*

He found the medical room by memory and scent—alcohol, herbs, the distinctive smell of healing supplies. The shelves were dusty but intact, and gods bless his grandfather's paranoid nature, everything was still there. Bandages, needle and thread, antiseptic tinctures, healing poultices that were probably ancient but might still work—

His eyes landed on a locked cabinet in the corner.

His heart stopped, then started again double-time.

That cabinet held his grandfather's emergency stores. The things kept for life-or-death situations, for when normal medicine wouldn't be enough.

Kael grabbed a heavy candlestick and smashed the lock.

Inside were vials of potions that glowed faintly in the darkness, their preservation spells still active after all these years. He grabbed three at random—didn't matter what they were, they were all designed to heal, to strengthen, to save a life—and bolted back to the main room.

Lyra lay exactly where he'd left her, her chest barely moving.

*Four minutes.*

"No," he snarled, dropping to his knees beside the couch. His hands shook as he uncorked the first vial—a silver liquid that smelled like lightning and tasted like metal when he tested it on his tongue. Healing draught, potent and pure.

He tipped her head back, supporting her neck with one hand, and poured the liquid down her throat. "Come on, come on, *swallow*."

For a terrible moment, nothing happened. The potion just sat in her mouth, and he realized with horror that she was too far gone to even swallow reflexively.

She was *drowning* on the medicine meant to save her.

No. *No.*

Kael sealed his mouth over hers and breathed out, forcing air into her lungs, creating pressure that made her body react. She convulsed, swallowing reflexively, the potion sliding down her throat at last.

He pulled back, watching her face with desperate intensity. "Please work, please work, *please*—"

Her heartbeat stuttered. Stopped.

*No no no no no—*

The bond in his chest *screamed*, agony like nothing he'd ever felt tearing through him. His mate was dying. Was *dead*. And he was *useless*, couldn't save her, couldn't—

She gasped.

Her back arched off the couch, her eyes flying open, her mouth gaping as she dragged in a breath that sounded like it was being torn from her lungs. Her heart kicked back into rhythm—weak, erratic, but *beating*.

The healing potion was working.

But not fast enough. He could see it in the grey tinge of her skin, in the way her eyes rolled back showing whites. The potion was fighting years of abuse, silver poisoning, blood loss, infection, shock—it was too much for even magic to heal instantly.

*Two minutes,* his mind supplied. *She needs more. She needs—*

His eyes fell on his own wrist.

Wolf blood. Fresh. Potent. His blood specifically, because she was his *mate*, and the bond made their blood compatible in ways normal wolves' weren't.

He could give her a transfusion. The old way. The way their ancestors had done before modern medicine.

But it would require him to shift partially, to open a vein, to literally bleed himself into her while she was unconscious and unable to consent to taking his blood into her body.

It would bind her to him even more deeply than the mate mark. Would tie their lives together in ways that couldn't be undone. She'd carry part of him inside her forever, would be able to feel his emotions through the bond, would be *his* in ways she might not want once she was healthy enough to understand what it meant.

But she would *live*.

The choice wasn't really a choice at all.

Kael bared his wrist, letting his canines lengthen, and bit down hard. Blood welled up, rich and dark, carrying the power of his bloodline. Crown Prince. Alpha heir. The strongest wolf in three generations.

He pressed his bleeding wrist to her lips.

"Drink," he commanded, putting every ounce of alpha authority into the word. "Lyra, *drink*."

Her body responded to the command even though her mind was gone. Her lips parted. Her throat worked. His blood flowed into her, hot and vital, carrying his strength, his power, his very *life* into her dying body.

The bond between them *exploded*.

What had been a thin thread became a rope, became a *chain*, binding them together with such force that Kael gasped and nearly pulled away. He could feel her now—not just her pain, but *her*. Her fear. Her exhaustion. The will to survive that had kept her alive through hell. The flicker of hope that had sparked when she'd seen him in that chamber.

*Mine,* his wolf howled in triumph. *Ours. OURS.*

And impossibly, unbelievably, he felt an answering surge from her side of the bond. Weak, barely there, but *present*.

*Yours,* it seemed to whisper. *Yours.*

Her color was returning. The grey pallor was fading, replaced by a hint of pink. Her heartbeat strengthened, becoming steady instead of erratic. The wounds on her wrists stopped bleeding, the flesh beginning to knit together with supernatural speed.

She was going to live.

The knowledge hit him like a physical blow, and Kael collapsed forward, his forehead resting against hers, his bleeding wrist still pressed to her mouth while she drank. Tears he hadn't known he was capable of tracked down his face, dripping onto her cheeks.

"Thank you," he whispered to whatever gods had spared her. "Thank you, thank you, *thank you*."

He didn't know how long he stayed like that, feeding her his blood, feeling her grow stronger with each swallow. Time lost meaning. There was only her heartbeat, growing steadier. Her breathing, becoming deeper. The bond between them, solidifying into something unbreakable.

Finally, when he started to feel lightheaded from blood loss, he gently pulled his wrist away. His saliva sealed the wound instantly, the way it had sealed her bite mark.

Lyra's eyes moved beneath her closed lids. Dreaming, perhaps. Or just deeply unconscious while her body used his blood and the healing potion to repair catastrophic damage.

Either way, she was *alive*.

Kael slumped back on his heels, suddenly aware of his own injuries. His hands were a mess of burns from the silver. The cut on his ribs had stopped bleeding but throbbed with every breath. Dozens of smaller wounds stung and ached.

He ignored all of it.

Behind him, Nyx sat watching with those eerie silver eyes, her expression almost... approving? The little wolf padded forward and lay down beside the couch, her head resting on her paws, taking up a guard position.

"Good girl," Kael murmured. "Watch over her while I secure the lodge."

He forced himself to his feet, swaying slightly from blood loss and exhaustion. The door was still hanging open, a security risk. He needed to bar it, needed to check the windows, needed to make sure no one could approach without warning.

But first, he took one last look at his mate.

Lyra lay on the couch, her breathing deep and even, her face relaxed in true rest perhaps for the first time in years. The mark on her throat proclaimed her his. His blood flowed through her veins. The bond hummed between them, strong and true.

She was alive. She was *his*. And he would die before he let anyone take her from him.

"Sleep," he told her softly. "You're safe now. I'll watch over you."

And for the first time in years, Crown Prince Kael Dravenhart felt something that had nothing to do with duty or honor or the weight of the crown.

He felt *whole*.