“Be patient.” She squeezes my arm. “Be present. Be whatever she needs, even when it’s not what you want. And when she pushes you away—because she will—don’t take it personally. It’s not about you. It’s about her learning to trust again.”
“I don’t do patient.”
“Learn.” Her voice is that of someone who’s lived through her own version of this and come out the other side. “She’s worth it, Rurik. Whatever she becomes to you—she’s worth learning patience for.”
Her hand drops. She disappears around a corner before I can form a response.
I stand in the passage. Walls pressing close. Torches flickering in their sconces. It settles onto my shoulders like armor I didn’t ask to wear.
Three hundred fifty years. That’s how long I’ve been alive, how long I’ve been fighting, burning, taking what I wanted without waiting for permission.
And now I’m standing in an empty hallway, trying to convince myself that patience is possible.
For her.
Mate. Protect. OURS.
“Not yet,” I mutter. “Not until she’s ready.”
I head back toward the infirmary. Back to the woman who looked at me like I was both nightmare and salvation.
Back to the beginning of something I don’t understand but can’t walk away from.
The passage stretches before me. Ancient walls. Dancing torchlight. The scent of herbs and hope drifting from behind the door I’m about to open.
For the first time in three hundred years, I slow down.
And start learning to wait.
THREE
AISLING
Three days since I woke screaming in a strange bed.
I’ve reorganized the infirmary twice.
The first time was survival—my hands needed occupation that wasn’t clawing at my own skin. The second was improvement. Now the bandages are sorted by width, the herbs alphabetized, the surgical tools gleaming in designated drawers.
The healers didn’t ask for an inventory list. I made one anyway. Four pages, color-coded. Green for adequate stock. Yellow for monitor. Red for critical.
Nothing is red. I’ve checked three times this morning alone.
My mother would laugh if she could see me now.Aisling and her lists, she used to say, half-fond and half-exasperated.You’d organize the clouds if you could reach them.
She meant it as criticism. I took it as a compliment.
Lists saved Biscuit—Mrs. Callahan’s ancient tabby who’d eaten something toxic and should have died on my operating table. Lists meant I knew exactly where the activated charcoal was at three in the morning, knew which IV line to grab, knew the dosage without fumbling for a reference book. Mrs. Callahan cried when I called to say he’d pulled through. Brought mescones every week for a month afterward, still warm from her oven.
Wonder if she’s noticed I’m gone yet. Wonder if anyone has.
I straighten a row of glass vials. Smallest to largest. Labels out.
Three weeks in that mountain. Days of blood and darkness and a voice like crushed glass telling me I wasuseful. And no one came looking. No frantic calls to the Gardaí. No search parties. No?—
Stop.
I adjust the vials again. My hands are steady. They’re always steady. Even when the rest of me is shaking apart inside, my hands stay steady.
