Chapter 21

Waking Pain

Jace's POV

Consciousness returned slowly, dragging me up from the depths of medicated sleep like a reluctant swimmer breaking the surface of dark water. The first thing I noticed was the absence of the constant, gnawing ache that had been my companion for the past three days. The silver was gone, extracted from my system, leaving behind only the sharp, clean pain of surgical healing.

The second thing I noticed was Grace.

She sat in the chair beside my cot, a book open in her lap, her face illuminated by the soft afternoon light filtering through the hospital window. She'd changed clothes since this morning—traded the blood-stained shirt for a simple black sweater that emphasized the lean lines of her shoulders and the elegant curve of her neck.

For a moment, I let myself simply watch her, drinking in details I'd been too pain-addled to appreciate earlier. The way she tucked a strand of short dark hair behind her ear when it fell across her cheek. The small furrow of concentration between her brows as she read. The unconscious grace in the way she held herself, even sitting still.

She was so beautiful it made my chest ache with something that had nothing to do with silver poisoning.

*She stayed,* my wolf whispered in wonder. *She's still here.*

I tried to shift into a more comfortable position and immediately regretted the decision. Pain lanced through my back where the claw had been removed, sharp enough to drag an involuntary hiss of discomfort from my throat.

Grace's head snapped up at the sound, the book forgotten as her gaze immediately focused on my face with laser intensity. "You're awake. How are you feeling?"

"Like someone carved a piece of my spine out with a rusty spoon," I admitted, trying to find a position that didn't make the surgical site scream in protest. "But better. Clearer. The fog in my head is gone."

"That's the silver chelation therapy working." She marked her place in the book and set it aside, her movements efficient and controlled. "Dr. Martinez wants to keep you on IV fluids for another day, but your blood work is showing significant improvement."

Her tone was professional, clinical, but I caught the slight relief underneath it. She'd been worried about me—actually worried, not just concerned about pack stability or regional politics.

"What time is it?" I asked, mainly to keep her talking. Her voice was different now than it had been three years ago—stronger, more confident—but it still had that slightly husky quality that had always made my pulse quicken.

"Nearly four in the afternoon. You've been sleeping for about six hours." She paused, then added, "Your father's condition is stable. No change, but the doctors seem cautiously optimistic."

I turned my head carefully to look at Dad's motionless form in the hospital bed. The machines continued their steady monitoring, and his color looked better than it had yesterday, but seeing him so still and vulnerable made my chest tighten with guilt and fear.

"This is my fault," I said quietly. "If I'd been paying attention, if I'd seen the signs of organized resistance—"

"Stop." Grace's voice cut through my self-recrimination with Alpha authority. "We've been through this. Professional assassins targeted your pack's leadership using military-grade tactics. No one could have predicted that level of coordination."

"But I should have—"

"You should have nothing." She leaned forward in her chair, her dark eyes blazing with sudden intensity. "You fought them off against impossible odds. You protected your father and Connor when anyone else would have run. You held your pack together through sheer force of will while slowly dying from silver poisoning. Stop trying to take responsibility for things that were beyond your control."

The fierce defense in her voice caught me off guard. This wasn't political necessity talking—this was someone who genuinely couldn't stand to watch me tear myself apart with misplaced guilt.

"Grace," I said softly, "why are you really here?"

She sat back in her chair, her expression shuttering as if she realized she'd revealed too much. "I told you. Regional stability requires—"

"No." I struggled to sit up despite the protest from my back, needing to meet her eyes properly. "That's the excuse you're giving everyone else, including yourself. But I need to know the real reason you came here, the reason you stayed when you could have left hours ago."

For a moment, I thought she might retreat behind that professional mask again, might deflect with talk of pack alliances and political necessity. Instead, she was quiet for a long time, studying my face as if trying to read something written there in a language she'd forgotten.

"Because," she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper, "I couldn't stand the thought of you dying while still believing I hated you."

The admission hit me like a physical blow. Not love, not forgiveness, but the simple acknowledgment that she didn't want me to die thinking she felt nothing but hatred for what we'd once shared.

"Do you?" I asked, hardly daring to breathe. "Hate me?"

"I want to." Her honesty was brutal in its simplicity. "It would be so much easier if I could hate you. If I could look at you and feel nothing but contempt for what you did to me."

"But you don't."

"No." The word came out like a confession dragged from the depths of her soul. "I don't hate you, Jace. I should, but I don't."

The relief that flooded through me was so intense it was almost overwhelming. Not forgiveness, not a declaration of renewed affection, but the simple acknowledgment that the connection between us wasn't entirely dead.

"What do you feel?" I asked, pushing my luck but needing to know.

Grace was quiet for so long I thought she might not answer. When she spoke, her voice was carefully controlled, as if she was measuring each word for its potential to wound.

"Confused. Angry. Tired of carrying around feelings that don't make sense anymore." She met my eyes directly. "And scared."

"Of me?"

"Of myself. Of what I might be stupid enough to hope for if I'm not careful."

I wanted to reach for her hand, to bridge the physical distance between us the way we had during the silver extraction. But something in her posture warned me that she was balanced on a knife's edge, ready to bolt if I pushed too hard too fast.

"Hope doesn't have to be stupid," I said instead. "Sometimes it's the bravest thing we can do."

"Is it?" Her smile was sad and knowing. "Because hoping you might actually be different this time, hoping you might have learned something from losing me—that feels pretty stupid from where I'm sitting."

"Then let me prove it's not." The words came out more urgent than I intended, colored by the desperate need to make her understand. "Give me a chance to show you that I'm not the same man who rejected you. That I've learned what real strength looks like by watching you transform yourself into something magnificent."

"Jace—"

"I'm not asking you to forgive me," I interrupted before she could shut me down. "I'm not asking you to forget what I did or pretend it didn't happen. I'm just asking for the chance to earn your trust again, one day at a time."

Grace studied my face with the same analytical intensity she'd shown while watching her opponents in the rank games. Looking for weaknesses, for signs that my words were just pretty lies designed to manipulate her emotions.

"Trust is earned through actions, not words," she said finally.

"I know."

"And it takes time. Months, maybe years of consistent behavior."

"I have time."

"What if I decide you're not worth the risk? What if I conclude that protecting myself is more important than giving you a second chance you might not deserve?"

The question was like a blade between my ribs, but I forced myself to answer honestly. "Then I'll respect that decision and find a way to live with the consequences of my mistakes."

Something shifted in her expression—surprise, maybe, at my acceptance of the possibility that redemption might not be possible.

"You're not going to fight for me? Demand that I give you another chance?"

"Grace, I spent three years learning that you don't belong to anyone but yourself. If you decide I'm not worth the risk, then I wasn't worth it. But I'm hoping—God, I'm hoping—that maybe you'll decide I am."

She was quiet for a moment, processing my response. Then she picked up her book again, settling back in her chair with deliberate casualness.

"We'll see," she said simply.

Not yes. Not no. But not dismissal either.

For now, it was enough.