Page 51 of The Prince's Captive

“Life is fighting. Every day. Every second. Running away? Taking the easiest path? It doesn’t work. Trust me, it will just make you miserable and you will have to live with your weakness for the rest of your life. No matter how tired you are, it will never tire of you. The fight will find you. It is not done with you. Or me.”

Over three years after that final conversation, Gavril had never forgotten them. They were the reason he had stayed instead of running away over three years ago despite what had happened immediately after them. If the fight was going to hunt him like a dog, then he was going to do the same to peace.

One of them would sink their teeth in first. Now it just might be him.

Capturing Hypatia had been his chance to bring them a little closer to that elusive thing. But now…

He’d seen Marcella cast two separate runes at the exact same time. That wasn’t supposed to be possible with corrupted vitae.

So what if the Sordes vitae wasn’t corrupted at all?

Peace. It meant there could be peace.

Despite how worn down he was, he had to keep fighting now that he could see it. He could grasp it. He could feel it in the vitae that now rested under the lines on his wrist that wasn’t his.

Her vitae felt exactly like he thought it would and so much more. It was strength and grace, and somehow brimming with faith. Nikias had once described it as like always having her hand on his arm, a certainty of her presence. Feeling her even when she wasn’t physically there. It was a beautiful thing.

Gavril was turning over everything in his mind, trying to sort out what he was going to tell Aimilia, his parents, and Nikias when they arrived in Areator the next day when the sound of Marcella shifting caught his attention. There was a soft mutter, and he furrowed his brow as he focused on trying to pick out the words.

The only thing he was able to hear clearly was ‘Hypatia.’

Was she having a nightmare?

Then a muffled, pained cry, and Gavril shot up. He’d noticed it during the ceremony and it had slipped his mind during the heat of their argument, especially since he’d been holding himself back from moving any closer lest he worsen what little standing he might have left with her. Something was wrong with her right wrist, not to mention the bruises Hirtus had left on her neck from his attack.

He immediately cast a soft light rune and set it on the ground, freeing his hands as its dim light filled the space. He immediately spotted Marcella clutching her right arm to her chest as she let out pained, huffing breaths, her eyes tightly squeezed shut.

Stubborn girl.

“Marcella. Here.” He spoke in her tongue, and at the sound of his voice, her eyes flew open. He gestured for her to come to him. In the dim light he could see her red eyes and the harsh bruises on her pale neck. She just glared at him in silence. Her favorite response to anything he did, he’d noticed.

When she didn’t move, he huffed. “Not all needs to be a fight.”

Her eyes just narrowed further and she pressed her injured wrist tighter into her stomach.

Well, he wasn’t just going to let her sit in her own pain any longer. She may not like it, but she was his wife. He wasn’t going to let her stay hurt.

He clenched his jaw, took in a long slow breath, and then he reached across the tent and grabbed her by the shoulders—not painfully but firmly—and pulled her forward until she was almost sitting on top of him.

He took her right arm first, avoiding her wrist as he tugged on her bicep to stretch it into the small space he’d left between them. She tried jerking it back, but he just tightened his grip and moved his fingers against her skin in a rune.

He poured his vitae into it, ignoring her sharp grunts as she kept trying to pull away until his rune was finished and the sprain’s healing had been sped along.

The second he let go, she twisted and tried to move back, but she didn’t get far as he reached up and cupped her neck and jaw in both of his hands. He tilted her head back, exposing the bruises on her throat to his sight, her hair falling away. She made a noise in the back of her throat, and he responded with a soft hush and a murmur in her tongue, “Hush. Still. No harm. No harm.”

He kept his touch as light as he could while still keeping her firmly in his grip. He wasn’t good enough as a healer to be able to do anything from a distance. It wasn’t his field; he just knew what he’d been trained in like all the commanders were in the event of an emergency without a healer or for small things not to take up a healer’s vitae.

He could see the bruises change color and fade as his vitae worked on them despite Marcella trying to squirm away, eyeing the glow of his runes from the corner of her eyes. He pulled his hands back once he was done, and Marcella immediately shifted back, her left hand flying up to her throat.

She stuttered, “W—What?”

“Hiding pain from me. Pointless. Gain nothing.”

He knew better than most the signs of someone hiding an injury anyway.

She flexed her right wrist and lowered her hand from her throat. She murmured, “I thought you were—Never mind.”

She’d thought he was silencing her like he had Hirtus?

---