Page 72 of The Prince's Captive

He could not again.

As he cleaned up and got dressed, his shaking hands slowed him further. Whether they were shaking from the rage he’d been pushing down so he could focus on caring for Marcella or from the irrational worry running through his head that now that she was out of his sight she would be put back up on one of those tables, he didn’t know.

It made fastening his chiton harder. He couldn’t even tie his sandals.

Gavril let the ties fall to the ground as he sat on his bed, instead burying his head in his hands. His own harsh, ragged breathing was the only sound in his room.

The eerie silence he’d found when he’d reached the healer’s wing instead of any scream had sent his heart to his feet. The thought that he was too late cut through his whole body.

He’d never experienced such a whirlwind of emotions as he had when slamming open the door and finding Marcella on the table and under a scalpel, but alive.

The relief at seeing her alive had been quickly replaced with his fury the second Nikias appeared in his view, trying to grab him and push him back out the door. He barely remembered what Nikias had said; all Gavril remembered was throwing his brother off him and yelling at him and everyone to get out.

It was all a blur. But the sight of Marcella paralyzed, bleeding, silently crying was burned into him.

The second he was able to get his limbs to move, fingers flying first to banish the rune causing her paralysis and then the runes silencing her, something struck him. It was deep in his chest as she tried to get up and he fell to his knees when she’d shrunk away from his touch, sobbing. But he could not focus on the weight that had crashed onto him because all that mattered was Marcella. Getting her off the table and convincing her she was safe was all that mattered.

Then she’d said that one word. He hadn’t known he could be more devastated until she’d said it.

Die.

But she was alive. There was only one thing worse than what had happened to her: if she’d died before he’d gotten there. If she had died—

That he could not abide.

This time he would succeed in keeping his promises because he knew the consequences of his failure.

“Mea spes, tuebor. Tuebor. Ita vivere.”

“My hope, I will protect. I will protect. So live.”

The weight that had crashed over him had not vanished, and Gavril could not put it off any longer. The rush was over. He could not distract himself by focusing wholly on having Marcella in his arms as she slept, comforting her.

He barely caught himself on the edge of the bed, his sandals still untied as his arm shook.

Seeing her in so much pain, so terrified, all his actions since and his actions before all made sense now.

He loved her. He was in love with her.

Yes, he’d been fond of her very quickly. He knew he had affection for her after marrying her. That his feelings for her were different than any he’d had of friendship for Aimilia and could only be romantic, but…

He could not pretend this was a result of anything less than love.

His mind was spinning at the realization of just how deeply and how quickly he had fallen for her.

And just how quickly he had failed her. Barely even a day upon their return, she’d ended up exactly where he’d married her to protect her from. It was all too much, and he still did not have time for it.

His sandals needed to be tied and he needed to go to dinner with his parents to protect his wife.

If he wanted a chance at peace, he had to keep that vow.

And even if he didn’t get it, he would keep it anyway. He could do nothing less. He loved her to devastation.

There was a high chance that devastation was how this end regardless of his best intentions and efforts.

“No matter how tired you are, it will never tire of you. The fight will find you. It is not done with you.”

He was not done with the fight either. He would fight for her.

---