Chapter 25: Healer's Inspection
The heavy quiet after James left was a warm, drowsy thing. Rowan felt it seeping into his bones, a counterweight to the lingering scent of blood. Mark hadn’t moved from the edge of the dais, his forehead still resting against Rowan’s, his eyes closed. They stayed like that for a long moment, breathing the same air, until a soft knock fractured the stillness.
Mark’s eyes flew open. The vulnerability snapped away, replaced by instant, bristling alertness. He was on his feet in one fluid motion, his body positioning itself between Rowan and the door, a hand going to the empty scabbard at his hip. “Who is it?”
“Healer Elara, Your Majesty.” A woman’s voice, calm and aged, filtered through the thick wood.
A low rumble started in Mark’s chest. “Now is not–”
“Let her in,” Rowan said, his voice stronger than he expected. He shifted Kai carefully. “Please. He needs to be checked. And I… I don’t feel right.”
That did it. Mark’s resistance crumpled. He shot Rowan a look of pure, undiluted fear, then stalked to the door and yanked it open.
Elara was older, her hair a steely gray twist at the nape of her neck. She carried a woven basket and wore a simple linen apron over her dress, but her eyes missed nothing. They took in the blood on Mark, the pristine blankets on the dais, the pale omega and the bundle in his arms. She gave a shallow bow. “My King. My congratulations.”
“Just see to them,” Mark said, his voice a gravelly command. He didn’t step aside, forcing her to squeeze past his imposing, blood-caked form.
The chamber felt smaller with her in it. The antiseptic smell of her herbs clashed with the intimate scents of milk and sweat and iron. She approached the dais, her movements deliberate and slow, aware of the Alpha looming behind her like a storm cloud.
“May I?” she asked, her hands poised above Kai.
Rowan nodded, peeling back the blanket. The healer’s hands were dry and cool, her touch clinical but not unkind. She examined Kai’s limbs, his fingers and toes, listened to his breathing with a small wooden pipe. She checked his eyes, his mouth. “A strong, healthy boy,” she announced softly. “Perfect weight. Lungs are clear.”
Mark let out a breath he seemed to have been holding forever. The tension in his shoulders dropped a fraction.
Then Elara turned to Rowan. “And how are you feeling, my dear? Any sharp pains? Bleeding?”
Before Rowan could answer, Mark took a step closer. “He was moving too soon. He shouldn’t have gotten up.”
Elara kept her eyes on Rowan, gently palpating his abdomen through the blanket. “Sometimes movement is necessary. Let’s see.” Her hands were firm, probing. Rowan winced.
A growl vibrated through the room. Deep, threatening. Elara’s hands froze.
“Mark,” Rowan said, a sharp plea cutting through the rumble. “She’s helping.”
Mark’s jaw worked. He didn’t apologize, but the growl subsided into a tense silence. He watched, his blue eyes laser-focused on the healer’s every movement, his bloodstained fingers curling and uncurling at his sides. When Elara checked Rowan’s pulse at his throat, Mark’s hand twitched toward where his sword usually hung.
“Your pulse is too fast,” Elara murmured, ignoring the Alpha’s silent threats. “You’re exhausted, and in shock. The birth, the terror of the attack… it’s taken a severe toll.” She reached into her basket, pulling out a small clay jar. “This salve will help with the soreness. And you need to drink this tea, for strength and milk.” She placed a packet of dried leaves on the edge of the dais.
“Is he okay?” Mark’s question was blunt, raw.
“He will be,” Elara said, finally looking at the King. “With rest. Proper care. Quiet. He is not made of stone, Sire. He’s been through an ordeal that would break many. His body needs time to heal. His mind does, too.”
Mark absorbed this, his gaze shifting from the healer to Rowan’s pale face. The raw, possessive fear in his eyes was slowly being edged out by something heavier: responsibility. Guilt.
Elara packed her things, giving final instructions about the tea and rest. She bowed again and moved toward the door. Mark followed her, speaking to her in a low, urgent voice just outside the threshold. Rowan caught only snippets: “…anything he needs… posted outside… report directly…”
The door shut. The silence swelled back, but it was different now. Laced with the healer’s practical advice and the undeniable truth of Rowan’s fragility.
Mark turned from the door. He looked lost for a second, standing there in the middle of the grand, cold room in his ruined clothes. He looked at his hands, still caked with dried, flaking blood. He looked at the clean nest of furs, at Rowan and Kai.
Without a word, he walked to the washbasin in the corner. He scrubbed his hands and arms raw, the water turning a cloudy pink. He splashed his face, running wet fingers through his matted hair. He didn’t clean all of it—dark streaks still marked his neck, his tunic was a lost cause—but he removed the worst of the visible gore.
Then he walked back to the dais. He didn’t kneel this time. He just stood there, looking down.
“She’s right,” Rowan said softly, breaking the quiet. “I’m really tired.”
Mark nodded, a stiff, mechanical gesture. “Sleep.”
“You should… you should clean up properly. Rest too.”
“I’ll be right here,” Mark said, his voice leaving no room for argument.
Rowan knew better than to fight it. He carefully laid Kai down in the crook of his arm and settled back into the furs, his body sighing in relief. He watched as Mark dragged a heavy, upholstered chair from against the wall. He placed it right beside the dais, close enough that his arm could rest on the marble platform. He sat down, the chair groaning under his weight. He stretched his long legs out, crossed his boots at the ankles, and let his head fall back against the tall backrest. He closed his eyes.
He wasn’t sleeping. Rowan could tell by the steady, watchful rhythm of his breathing. He was standing guard. In a room with locked doors and posted sentries outside, the King was standing guard over a pile of furs.
Rowan watched the strong line of his profile, the exhaustion carved into the dirt and blood smeared on his face. This man had just torn through an invading force. Now he was sitting vigil in a nursery.
A different kind of warmth spread through Rowan, one not born of exhaustion or fear. It was small, and timid, but it was there. He shifted, wincing at the ache, and let his own eyes drift shut. The last thing he sensed before sleep took him was the slow, deliberate shift of fabric as Mark leaned forward, just enough for his fingers to brush lightly against the edge of Rowan’s blanket. An anchor point. A tether.
Outside the chamber, the castle waited, buzzing with aftermath and questions. But in here, there was only the sound of two breaths slowly syncing, and a third, tiny one, knitting them together.