And then, so faintly I almost miss it, her fingers twitch in mine.
I freeze, my breath catching. “Violet?”
Nothing. No other movement. But her heartbeat on the monitor picks up slightly. Just a few beats faster than before.
She’s fighting. Still fighting.
I bring her hand to my lips, pressing a kiss to her palm. “That’s it,” I murmur. “Fight, my love. Come back to me.”
I pull my chair closer, my hand still wrapped around hers, and I wait.
I won’t leave her side. Not again.
Never again.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Violet
I wake to the beeping of machines and the aching of my entire body. The clinic room is dim, early morning light filtering through blinds. I lie still, piecing together fragments. The arena. Execution. Darius fighting Alaric. The gunshot.
Zion.
My shoulder throbs, confirming it really happened.
Then, I feel the warmth of someone’s hand wrapped around mine.
I turn my head slowly, and my breath catches.
Darius is here. Asleep in a chair pulled up to my bedside, his head resting on the mattress near my hip. His dark hair is disheveled, falling across his forehead. He looks exhausted. Dark circles shadow his eyes, and there is tension in his jaw that doesn’t ease even in sleep.
He came for me.
The thought hits me with unexpected force, and I have to swallow against the sudden tightness in my throat. He came into that arena. When they were about to kill me, when I thought I was going to die, he fought his own father. He killed Alaric. For me.
I remember him kneeling in front of me after, asking if I was alright. Then, I saw Zion behind him with that gun. And then…my wolf! We pushed Darius out of the way. I remember the explosion of pain in our shoulder. The world going black as we fell into his arms.
A tear slips down my cheek.
The salty smell must reach him because his breathing changes. His head lifts slowly, and his eyes blink open, unfocused at first. Then, they land on me, and I watch shock ripple across his features, followed immediately by pure, undiluted happiness.
“Violet,” he breathes, and my name sounds like salvation on his lips.
He brings my hand to his mouth and plants fervent kisses on my knuckles, his lips warm against my skin. “You’re awake. You’re back.”
I try to speak, but my throat is too dry. He must see it because he leans in closer, his palm cupping my cheek. Then, he’s kissing me, softly and desperately, and I let him because his trembling touch is the only thing that feels real right now, the only thing that grounds me.
When he pulls back, he rests his forehead against mine, his breath mingling with mine. “The next time you run away from me,” he says, his voice rough with emotion, “I’m tying you to me. Do you understand?”
A broken laugh bubbles out of me, unexpected and slightly hysterical, and I see the corner of his mouth lift in response.
“I’m serious, Violet.”
“I know,” I manage to whisper.
He draws back just enough to reach for a cup of water on the bedside table. He holds the straw to my lips, and I drink gratefully, the cool liquid soothing my parched throat. When I’m done, he sets it aside and takes my hand again, like he can’t bear not to be touching me.
“I didn’t think you’d come for me,” I say quietly, the words scraping out.
