"And if we don't find another way? If there is no other option?"
"Then I'll cut my own heart out and hand it to you if that's what the ritual requires." His voice doesn't waver. "But I'm not watching you die without fighting for every alternative first."
The conviction catches me off guard. This isn't the groveling I expected. Isn't the broken apologies I'd steeled myself against. This is something else—an alpha who knows he's failed and is determined to do better. Not by begging for absolution, but by actually being better.
I don't know what to do with that.
"I need access to the library," I say instead of addressing any of it. "The restricted section. Everything you have on cursed bloodlines, warrior omegas, ritual magic, blood transfers. I'm not sitting in my chambers waiting for you to find answers."
"Already arranged." He nods once. "You'll have your own workspace in the eastern alcove—good light, comfortable chairs, everything you need. Separate from mine."
"Good." I move toward the food tray, suddenly aware of how exhausted I am, how heavy my body feels. The twins shift inside me, responding to my fatigue. "We start tomorrow."
He moves toward the door. I think he's going to leave without saying anything else.
Then he stops. Turns back, one hand on the door frame.
"I'm not going to keep apologizing," he says quietly. "You've made it clear that words don't mean anything right now, and you're right. Sorry doesn't undo what I did. Doesn't rebuild the trust I shattered."
I don't respond.
"But I'm not done fighting for you." His eyes hold mine, golden and fierce despite the exhaustion. "For them. For whatever chance we still have to get through this alive—all of us. You can hate me while I do it. I've earned your hatred. But I'm not going anywhere."
It's not an apology. It's not a plea for forgiveness.
It's a promise.
Part of me wants to rage at the arrogance. Throw something at his head and scream that he doesn't get to decide to fight for me.
But another part—the part I'm trying to silence—respects him more for this than I would have respected another broken apology.
"Just find the ritual," I say finally. "That's all I need from you right now."
"I will." He opens the door. "Get some rest. I'll see you in the library tomorrow."
Then he's gone.
I stand there for a long moment, staring at the closed door. At the bond still pulling tight and painful in my chest.
He didn't grovel. Didn't beg. Didn't give me the easy villain I wanted him to be.
I don't know if that makes things better or worse.
I force myself to eat, bite by careful bite. Bread that's perfectly fresh, cheese aged exactly the way I like it, fruit at the peak of ripeness. He remembered. Remembered every preference I mentioned in passing, every small detail from the weeks we spent together.
The attention to detail should annoy me. Instead it makes my chest ache in ways I don't want to examine.
The twins are moving as I eat. The boy kicking hard against my ribs—sharp jabs that feel almost aggressive. The girl's movements softer, gentler. A flutter rather than a strike. I press my hand against first one, then the other, feeling them respond.
Less than twelve weeks until his instincts activate. Until the curse wakes up inside him and turns him into a weapon pointed at his own sister.
Our son, Rhystan had said.Who didn't ask to carry this curse any more than I did.
He's right. I know he's right. But it's easier to think of the threat ashis—his curse, his bloodline, his fault. Easier than accepting that the baby I'm carrying, the son I'm growing inside my own body, might kill his sister through no choice of his own.
I press both hands flat against my belly.
"I'm going to save you both," I whisper to them—to my daughter floating peacefully in the warm dark, to my son who doesn't know what's growing inside him alongside his tiny forming bones. "Whatever it takes. I promise."
