The Original-forged wound resists, a curse that doesn’t want to loosen its grip, yet even that begins to falter. Heat gathers beneath his skin, faint at first, then steadier, a slow, relentless reclamation.
He’s healing.
Not the way he once would have, not with effortless dominance over injury, but with grim persistence that refuses to be denied. The Apostate power flowing through him, vampire and witch merge, knitting flesh and bone back together with methodical certainty.
“We need to get her inside,” Rogue says from somewhere nearby.
“I’ll carry her.” Crave doesn’t wait for agreement, just stands with me still cradled against his chest, moving toward the clubhouse with supernatural speed vampires possess.
The world blurs. One moment we’re standing in the kill zone, surrounded by death and victory, and the next, we’re inside the clubhouse, the familiar scent of leather, motor oil, and home wrapping around me. Crave doesn’t stop in the main room. He keeps moving, carrying me down a corridor and up the stairs.
His private quarters.
The room is spartan in its simplicity. A massive bed with black sheets, but the smaller details hit differently now. The books stacked on the nightstand, spines worn from centuries of reading. The leather jacket hanging on its hook, things I’ve seen before, but never reallyunderstood.
Small, human touches that make this more than a place to sleep.
Things that make it a sanctuary.
Crave lays me on the bed with a gentleness that contradicts every violent thing I know he’s capable of. The mattress gives beneath my weight, and my body practically melts into it, every muscle screaming relief at finally being allowed to rest.
“Sleep.” His voice is low, steady, pitched to soothe rather than command.
Before I can respond, he reaches for a cloth, dampened somewhere behind me. He moves slowly, deliberately, as if sudden motion might fracture what little strength I have left. The fabric is cool against my skin, and he starts at my temples, carefully wiping away the dried streaks of blood there. His jaw tightens as he works, control locked down hard, every movement precise.
He cleans the blood from beneath my eyes next, then my ears, methodical and gentle, as though the act itself is a promise. That he’s here, he’s got me, and I’m safe.
His thumb brushes my cheekbone, catching the last rust-dark smear. “I’ll be here when you wake.”
I want to argue. I want to tell him I’m fine, I don’t need protection, that I can handle whatever comes next. But exhaustion crashes over me like a tidal wave, and the words dissolve before they ever reach my tongue.
The last thing that registers before the dark takes me is his hand closing around mine, fingers threading through mine with quiet certainty, anchoring me to the world in a way that feels more real than any magic ever has.
Time loosens its grip.
I drift in and out of consciousness, never quite fully awake, never quite completely under. Sometimes I surface to find Oracle sitting beside the bed, phoenix flames dancing across his palms as he checks my vitals with magic instead of medical equipment. Sometimes it’s Hades, his white eyes glowing in the darkness as death energy swirls around him, making minute adjustments to whatever framework they built to keep me alive.
But always,always, Crave is there.
Sometimes he sits in a chair pulled close to the bed, watching me with those silver eyes that see too much. Sometimes he lies beside me, his body a solid presence against my back, his arm draped over my waist as if he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he lets go. Sometimes I feel him through our connection, his worry bleeding into my dreams, his relief when I stir enough to prove I’m still here.
Days pass.
Maybe weeks.
I can’t tell.
My body heals in ways that feel both accelerated and achingly slow. The burns from channeling too much power fade to nothing. The blood stops pooling in places it shouldn’t be. My Bloodfire settles into a steady simmer instead of the wild infernoit was during the battle, contained and controlled but ready to ignite at a moment’s notice.
And through it all, I feel Crave healing beside me. His Apostate powers are slowly rebuilding what the Binding stole, making him into something new. Not weaker than he was, not stronger, just different. Changed in ways that mirror my own transformation, as if we’re becoming two halves of one impossible whole.
When I finally wake, not the half-conscious drifting I’ve been doing, the first thing I see is him. He’s standing by the door, talking quietly with Rogue. Both of them turn when my heart rate changes, when my breathing shifts from deep sleep to waking awareness. Rogue’s golden eyes assess me with lycan precision, cataloging every change, every new threat or advantage I might represent. Then he nods once and leaves without a word, closing the door behind him with a soft click.
I weakly smile, knowing Rogue is always there at Crave’s side. His right-hand man. His packmate. The guardian who would bleed, kill, or burn the world down before letting anything take his Alpha. As a lycan, Rogue is duty-bound to serve and protect Crave. But Rogue’s loyalty to Crave isn’t about duty—their brotherhood was forged on a mutual friendship that even I can’t comprehend.
But I would like to know more.
Maybe one day they will tell me more about it.
