Page 42 of The Warrior's Captive

“Ah, okay.” Her cheeks flushed. She was ashamed at her selfishness.

“That’s alright. Of course you’re only thinking about your mate right now.”

“He’s not my mate,” Briar May snapped quickly, remembering her promise to herself. She had to let him go, even if it tore her apart. If they were together then whoever did this to him would surely come and finish the job.

“Make sure you try to eat more than you’ve been eating. I’ll leave some herbs for you as well, some tea to help settle a tossing belly. If you ever need anything else, you don’t hesitate to come or send someone over for me.”

Briar May dipped her head. She had no idea how to thank this woman who had given her everything, including Castor’s life. Just because he could never be her mate didn’t mean she wouldn’t do anything for him.

She gazed at Castor’s face. For once, the lines in his face had smoothed. There was no sweat beaded on his brow and no flush in his cheeks. He wasn’t shaking or shivering. He wasn’t muttering things about stars and fire, explosions and burning. He was practically dead when he’d arrived here. She couldn’t imagine even enduring a tenth of that pain. He’d probably faced it all without so much as flinching. That was the warrior’s way. The only time he made any noise was when he was so far gone to the fever that he had no notion of it happening.

She had to stop herself from stroking his cheek gently. The tenderness simmering in her ached. She needed an outlet. It wasn’t hers to have. He wasn’t hers. How very true that stupid saying about loving and setting things free was. He’d been sent here, but perhaps that was only because they’d assumed he would die from his injuries. If they learned that he’d survived, would they come to finish the job? Even if she left with him, they wouldn’t be safe anywhere. It was clear that his pack was brutal, and no matter how much it hurt her, she couldn’t risk it. She couldn’t have his death on her conscience.

“He deserves peace. He deserves rest.” She let her words wash over him when she refused her hand what it needed most.

He was still bruised, still bandaged, still cut up and carved out. It was going to be weeks before those injuries completely healed.

Brooke bent and gathered up her bag. “So do you.”

The old woman’s wisdom wasn’t something to be taken lightly, and she left Briar May with that.

She’d never felt more useless. She didn’t know what to do with herself. She got up and paced the room. She finally stopped and stared out the window. It was dark. When the heck had it grown dark? It was the middle of summer and night came late. How could she have lost track of time like that? She’d lost track of everything. Kieran. Zora. The twins.

Zora must have joined the twins at her parents’ cabin because the big cabin was completely silent. She wasn’t aware of guards coming and going and switching out, or even of Kieran existing there, but she was sure he did. She was sure he was doing that now, carrying on with running the pack. Castor was there in the alpha’s home, and for that to happen, he must have told everyone in the pack that he was more than a guest. What did the rest of their pack know? So far, only Kieran, Zora, her parents, and Brooke Wind knew about the baby.

She should have talked to Kieran about this. But instead of using the time wisely, she sat in silence, lost in herself.

She felt the weight of the past few days, and not just the sleeplessness. It was all there, hitting her hard. The rage, the horror, the thirst for blood. She’d once been gentle. Her hand hovered over her belly. How could she bring a child into the world when there was nothing but vitriol and bitterness at the heart of her now? She needed to go outside. Sit on the porch, maybe. She needed to let the moonlight soak back into her. She needed to stay there until morning when the sun rose so she could soak those healing rays deep into her skin. She needed the nourishment of life to grow life and love back into her.

On the bed, Castor’s breathing shallowed out, more like his fevered breaths. There were times when he was practically gasping for air, though it was probably because he was breathing through endless pain, like rain driving down in blinding sheets all around him. He wasn’t just fighting the infection off. He was fighting to heal wounds so severe that even Brooke was taken aback when she saw them, though she had incredible composure.

Her heart stopped as her eyes flew to the bed. She expected to have to race downstairs and see if Brooke was still there. She’d said she was leaving something for the pain, but what if the fever came back? She needed Brooke at her side, fighting for Castor’s life.

The fever wasn’t back.

Castor’s breathing had changed because he was no longer asleep.

Her hand flew to her heart and hovered there. She’d been unable to touch him, but she also couldn’t touch herself there. Not when he was watching. Not when it would signal to him the completely wrong message. She quickly got her face under control before he saw her despair.

She’d just spent days fighting for his life, but now she had a different fight ahead of her. She would have to fight with her body to let him go. Her body that had claimed him as her mate and the body that was now carrying his child. She wanted to rain kisses over his face and watch over him until he was well. But now she had to be distant.

His eyes swept straight to her. Hers locked with his. The first time she’d seen them in the woods felt like a lifetime ago. They were hard and dead, so cold a blue that they were like the bones left by a scavenger—stark white, bleached into nothingness, a different kind of chilling. Even then, she’d been wrong. Even when she feared the worst, she hadn’t felt normal fear around him. Those eyes should have turned her to ice, but instead they’d made her burn. They made her burn now, her skin erupting into white-hot flame.

She straightened and hugged her arms around herself. Castor held her gaze still. She felt like even though he wasn’t looking at her body, he could see everything. That he knew everything. He didn’t seem in a fit state to know anything. If he knew she was carrying his child, that would be it for her. She’d never be able to convince him to leave, and she needed to. She couldn’t stand to see this happen again. She couldn’t stand to lose him or for those people to return to finish what they started.

She was skewered clean through by the intensity of his gaze. Before, his vision was all wrong, burning fever bright and seeing nothing. Now, his focus was a deadly thing. Even from the bed, he looked every inch the brutal killer that he was. She’d always known that, known what he did, but it never repulsed her. There was probably something incredibly wrong with her. She couldn’t overlook it or excuse it. It hadn’t stopped her from clenching up on the inside before and it didn’t stop her now.

She carefully dropped her eyes, hoping that would break the spell. One wasn’t supposed to look a dangerous predator in the eye like that anyway. She studied the gash on his cheek, healing over now, that would turn into a raised scar. It would mirror his facial expressions for the rest of his life, if he ever allowed himself to have any. If he allowed himself to feel.

She’d once wanted to convince him that he could, but now she knew she had no right. It would be far easier for the both of them if she got herself under control and forced herself to be dead inside, so he’d be convinced of her plan.

“Briar May.” His voice scratched over his parched throat. His mouth must be like dust.

She rushed for the cup of water on the nightstand, but he threw out a hand.

Even though he’d just been out of his mind, burning with fever, hurt to the breaking point of even his unthinkably brutal standards, he pushed himself up and turned to where she looked. He got the cup and tipped it to his own lips. He drank slowly. So slowly. He knew his limits. Knew exactly what he needed to do for himself and how to care for himself.

Like this had happened before.

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