Chapter 4

Roxie's POV

His amber eyes bored into mine, waiting for an answer.

The wall was cold against my back, his arm a cage beside my head. Most people in this position would stammer. I tilted my head and smiled.

"You know, most people say thank you when someone saves their life. Just a thought — before the interrogation starts."

Something shifted in his expression. Barely a twitch, but on a face that controlled, it was practically a double-take.

"I walked into a room with your feral wolf," I continued, "put my hands on him when your entire Healer team was plastered against the wall — and he didn't rip me apart. So." I raised my eyebrows. "A little gratitude would be nice."

Silence stretched between us. Then he stepped back — just half a step — and his expression sealed over into something cold and flat.

"Thank you." The words sounded like they'd been extracted under duress. "Now. Don't lie to me."

"I'm not lying. I'm a Healer — a good one, apparently, since I just did in five minutes what your team couldn't do in an hour." I shrugged. "I sensed the dark-magic corruption, recognized the pattern, and applied a treatment I've studied. That's all there is to it."

Technically true. I left out the part where my studies happened in a previous life. But omission wasn't lying — and I had no intention of telling anyone about the rebirth. Not him. Not anyone.

The suspicion in his gaze softened — not disappearing, but retreating behind something more measured. He opened his mouth—

"Also, you're bleeding." I cut in.

His brow creased. "What?"

I pointed at his chest. A dark stain was spreading across the left side of his shirt — fresh blood soaking through the torn fabric. Not from the shift itself.

"You did this to yourself, didn't you?" I stepped closer, examining the stain. "During the episode. You clawed your own chest to try to shock yourself out of the feral state."

His jaw tightened, which was answer enough.

"That's actually impressive," I said. "Most people don't have enough willpower to fight back once the curse takes hold. Painful, but clever." I nodded toward the bed. "Sit down. Let me look at it."

"It's nothing."

"It's definitely not nothing — that residue will spread if it isn't treated. Sit."

Something flickered across his face. Annoyance, maybe. Or surprise that someone was ordering him around in his own palace. Either way, he sat on the edge of the bed.

I pulled what was left of his shirt open.

Four deep gashes ran diagonally from his collarbone to his lower ribs. The skin around them was inflamed, dark-magic residue crackling faintly along the edges like black static.

"These are deep," I murmured, placing both hands flat on his chest. His skin burned under my palms — not fever, just heat, steady and radiating. Under my hands, his heartbeat pulsed slow and strong.

I channeled Healer energy into the first wound. The dark residue hissed and retreated as my light pushed into the torn flesh.

"Does it hurt?" I asked, tracing the wound edge.

"No."

"Liar." I glanced up. The muscle under my palm had tensed the moment I touched the deepest part of the gash. "It's okay to admit pain. I'm not going to judge you."

"I've had worse."

"I'm sure you have. Hold still — this one's deep."

I leaned in closer to reach the second gash along his ribs. My face was level with his collarbone now, close enough to feel heat radiating off his skin. Close enough to catch that scent underneath the blood and sweat — sharp, clean, something almost electric that made my pulse stutter before my brain could intervene.

"You don't seem afraid of me," he said quietly.

I didn't look up. "Should I be?"

"Most people are."

"Well." I pressed my palm flat against the third wound at the center of his chest. His heartbeat thudded against my hand — steady, warm. "I'm not most people. You may have noticed."

I sealed the third gash, then moved to the fourth. My fingers traced the lowest wound along his ribs, the skin taut and warm beneath them. I channeled energy deeper than before, chasing the last strands of dark residue buried in the muscle. His body was motionless under my hands, but the quality of his stillness had changed — like he was holding very, very still on purpose.

I sealed the last wound. Pulled my energy back. Looked up.

He was watching me.

Not with suspicion. Not cold calculation. His amber eyes held something I couldn't name — steady, intent, unguarded in a way that made my stomach tighten. From this close I could see the darker ring around his irises, the thin scar through his left eyebrow. The kind of face that was severe in repose and devastating up close.

My hands were still on his bare chest. His skin was still hot under my palms. I could feel his heartbeat — slow, calm, impossibly steady for a man who'd been a feral wolf twenty minutes ago.

Mine, on the other hand, was doing something it had no business doing.

I should have pulled away immediately. But my palms lingered two seconds too long — pressed against skin that was smooth over hard muscle, warmth seeping through my fingers and up my wrists. He smelled like cedar smoke underneath the blood. The kind of scent that stayed on your clothes.

I pulled back. Clasped my hands behind me.

"All sealed," I said, a little too brightly. "You'll scar, but nothing permanent. Consider them battle souvenirs."

He said nothing. Just watched me with those amber eyes, and I realized he'd been watching me the entire time — every reaction, every hesitation, every second my hands had stayed longer than strictly necessary.

I cleared my throat and turned the conversation before the silence swallowed me whole.

"So — your treatment. Can we talk about that? Because something doesn't add up." I crossed my arms. "Curses like yours don't deteriorate this fast on their own. Something is accelerating the breakdown, and I don't think it's natural."

I was thinking about what I knew from my previous life. After Kaelan died — within a year of marrying Reyna — his uncle Magnus had seized power almost immediately. Suspiciously immediately. He'd married Kaelan's own stepmother as his new Luna Queen, a partnership that reeked of prior arrangement. That regime had lasted barely six months before being overthrown.

Which meant Magnus had been positioning himself long before Kaelan died. Possibly for years. And if someone inside the palace wanted the Crown Prince dead sooner rather than later, the easiest method wouldn't be poison or ambush. It would be his medication. Sabotage the treatment. Let the curse do the rest. No one would question a dying prince dying faster.

"What medications has your Healer team been prescribing?" I asked. "I want the full list. Doses, schedules, who authorized what."

He studied me for a long moment. I could see the calculation behind those amber eyes — not distrust exactly, but something close to it. Like he was reassessing what kind of woman had just walked into his life.

"Asher," he called toward the door. "Bring me the treatment log."