Chapter 5

Roxie's POV

Asher returned within minutes with a tablet — the full medication record. Dates, dosages, every prescription filed by the palace Healer team over the past eight months.

I scrolled through it, leaning against the edge of the desk. Most of the protocol was standard dark-magic suppression: lunar extract, silverroot tincture, purified wolfsbane in calibrated doses. Textbook stuff. Nothing I'd flag.

Then I found it.

"Nightshade sedative," I said. "Administered daily for four consecutive months." I looked up. "Who authorized this?"

"Head Healer Marcus," Kaelan said. "He's been managing my treatment since the curse manifested."

"How long has Marcus been at the palace?"

"Over twenty years. He served my father before me."

Twenty years. Plenty of time to be compromised — by ideology, by threats, by someone promising a better position under a new regime. I filed that away.

"The nightshade is your problem," I said, setting the tablet down. "Short-term — two weeks, three at most — it's a perfectly fine sedative for feral episodes. But at four months of continuous daily dosing?" I shook my head. "It stops suppressing the episodes and starts degrading the barrier between your human mind and your wolf. Every dose makes it harder for you to regain control."

He went still.

"Your episodes are getting worse," I said. "But not as fast as the curse alone would explain. The medication is accelerating the breakdown. Basically, the thing that's supposed to be helping you is making you worse."

His jaw tightened. His amber eyes went flat and hard — the expression of a man realizing the people he'd trusted might be the ones destroying him.

"If you want to actually recover," I said, leaning forward, "let me take over your treatment. Full authority. New protocol, new approach — one that doesn't eat you alive from the inside."

He was quiet for a long time. When he finally spoke, his voice was careful.

"And what do you want in return?"

I almost laughed. "What do I want? I want you to not die. Your Highness."

Something crossed his face — surprise, maybe. He'd probably been bracing for demands. Territory. Power. Leverage. What he got instead was a woman who simply didn't want to attend his funeral.

I held his gaze. "I'm not here for territory or political leverage. I'm not angling for influence. I literally just want a husband who's still breathing by next year. Is that so hard to believe?"

"You should know," he said after a pause, "this marriage wasn't my choice. It's just a political match." He stood and walked to the window. Late-afternoon light caught the angles of his face. "My condition isn't suited for a mate bond. I won't pretend otherwise."

"I'm not asking you to pretend anything."

"Every episode is harder to come back from," he said, his back to me. "Last month I lost consciousness for six hours. This morning was longer. Each time the wolf takes over, the human mind comes back a little less." He paused. "The final stage is permanent transformation. The wolf takes over entirely. Feral. Violent. Mindless. The man doesn't come back."

He turned his head just enough to catch my eye. "That's what you're signing up for."

"I know exactly what I'm signing up for." I didn't waver. "And I'm telling you — if you follow my treatment, I can cure this. Not manage. Cure."

He turned fully. Searched my face for bluff, desperation, naivety. Found none.

The rigidity in his posture eased — not much, but enough. He wasn't convinced. But he was willing to listen.

I pressed the advantage.

"Let me propose something practical," I said. "A contract marriage. I fulfill every public duty expected of a Luna — events, appearances, whatever the palace needs. We play the part. Privately, no lines crossed. No expectations beyond the arrangement." I shrugged lightly. "One year. After that, if you want to dissolve it and marry someone else — I'll sign the papers with a smile."

He studied me. "And if you can't cure me?"

"Then you've lost nothing. A year of someone competent managing your treatment and playing Luna at your events." I tilted my head. "Worst case, your condition stays the same and we go our separate ways. Best case — you live. Seems like a reasonable deal to me."

A beat of silence. Then he extended his hand. "Contract."

I took it. His grip was firm and warm. His amber eyes held mine — not detachment, not warmth. Something in between. Testing.

"I'll have Asher send you the full treatment records tonight," he said. "You start tomorrow."

"Looking forward to it." I smiled, released his hand, and walked out of the room without looking back.

The door shut behind me.

This time, I was not going to let anyone decide my ending for me.

Kaelan's POV

She walked out like she'd just closed a business deal.

No hesitation. No backward glance. No lingering in the doorway the way most people did when they left my presence — either out of fear or from reluctance to leave proximity to the Crown.

I stared at the closed door longer than I meant to.

"Asher."

The Beta appeared from the adjoining room within seconds. "Your Highness."

"The wedding. End of the month." I pulled the scheduling ledger toward me and picked up a pen. "Full royal protocol. Grand hall, formal procession, the works. Begin preparations today."

Asher hesitated. "Your Highness—you previously instructed a minimal ceremony. Immediate family only. Just a formality."

"I've updated the specifications." I didn't look up. "Even a formality must meet the standard of the Crown. Anything less invites gossip."

"Of course." A pause. "This wouldn't have anything to do with having met your future Luna?"

"No."

The word came out too fast.

Asher looked at me. Although his expression stayed perfectly unchanged, something subtle flickered through his eyes. But he didn't call me on it.

"Understood, Your Highness." He bowed and left.

The room settled into quiet.

I set down the pen. Leaned back in the chair.

A contract marriage. One year. No expectations.

She'd walked into a room with my feral wolf — a wolf that had sent three trained guards to the infirmary last month — and put her bare hands on him like it was a Tuesday afternoon. She'd healed what my entire medical team couldn't. She'd looked at my wounds without flinching, treated my chest without hesitation, and when she'd finished, she hadn't trembled or asked for reassurance.

She'd asked for my medication records.

Then she'd told me she could cure my curse. Not "try." Not "do my best." Cure. And the only thing she wanted in return was for me not to die.

I stared at the ceiling.

The contract made sense. Clean, practical, no messy emotions. Exactly the kind of arrangement I should want.

And yet.

She'd been close enough to feel my heartbeat while she healed my chest. Her hands had been steady. Her breathing hadn't been. She'd pulled away two seconds late and thought I didn't notice.

I'd noticed.

My chest still felt warm where her palms had been.

Interesting woman.