Chapter 4 Beneath the Rot, There's a Spark

Ravyn's POV

"I don't have a secret agenda!" I cried, my voice breaking under the weight of desperation. "I'm not here to trick you, I'm not here to spy, I'm just trying to stay alive!"

Darius's gaze remained cold, wary. His eyes, once legendary for its fire, now burned with something else. As I stepped closer, he flinched. His body coiled as if expecting a blow. He looked like an animal backed into a corner, exhausted and dangerous.

That was when I realized the truth: words alone wouldn't reach him. Not empty reassurances. Not well-rehearsed lines. He needed honesty. The kind that left bruises on the soul.

"My motive..." I swallowed the lump in my throat. "It's survival, Darius. That's all it's ever been. I've lived most of my life being beaten, starved, treated like property. The Ashfords owned me. I was nothing to them but a body to break. So when they offered me this marriage, I took it, because it was the only way out."

He didn't interrupt, but something in his expression shifted. A flicker, faint but real.

"I want to live," I said, softer now. "I want to wear clothes that aren't torn. I want to eat warm food without having to beg for it. I want to fall asleep without flinching. I want to be safe... and for once in my life, maybe even feel human."

Silence.

Darius's eyes narrowed, searching me like he was testing for cracks in my truth. He finally exhaled, but it wasn't a sigh of relief, it was resignation.

"So... Kimberly forced you into this?" he asked, voice low, cautious.

I nodded. "Yes. She told me if you die before the moon turns, I'll be buried beside you. That's the law, right? That's why I need to take care of you. Because if you die, so do I."

He gave a bitter, hollow laugh. "You'll be disappointed then. I don't have much time left. Not that anyone cares."

"Why?" The question slipped from my mouth before I could stop it. "Why are you dying? You were once the strongest in the pack. What happened to you?"

His expression hardened. The wall slammed back into place. "Didn't you say you were here to help with my bath?"

Dismissed, just like that.

I stepped forward, nodding slowly, trying not to let the rejection sting. "Yes. Let me help."

With practiced care, I began to remove the last of his clothing. My movements were gentle, clinical, but inside I felt anything but detached. When I saw the condition of his back. Red, blistering sores spreading across skin left too long against coarse sheets, my breath caught.

This wasn't just illness. This was abandonment.

Why had no one cared for him? Why had the heir of the Silver Pack been left like this?

I peeled away the bandages from his legs, layer by layer, revealing the damage beneath. Blood had dried into a crust that fused the gauze to the skin. The cloth clung with a stubbornness that made me wince on his behalf.

"Does it hurt?" I asked, though his pale, clenched jaw already answered for him.

He shook his head with defiant pride, but the truth showed in the way his hands gripped the arms of the chair. He was in agony.

I retrieved scissors and worked carefully, freeing the skin without tearing it. What I uncovered beneath stopped me cold.

His legs were ruined.

Not just wounded, not just infected but destroyed. The flesh was torn in overlapping gashes, deep enough in some places to show glinting shards of bone. Pus oozed from raw tissue. Rot had taken hold, eating its way up his thighs. The scent was foul and metallic, but I didn't flinch.

He watched me. "Now do you see why I said I won't survive?"

"There must be something, anything that can be done," I said, the words coming quickly.

"No." His tone was final. "The healers have tried. My body's given up. When the rot reaches my heart, it ends."

He paused, studying me. "You can go now. Tell whoever sent you that their wait won't be long. The prince is already dead."

"I'm not here to report to anyone," I said firmly. "And I'm not leaving you like this."

He blinked, taken aback by my tone.

I rummaged through the cabinets and found bottles of antiseptic and salve. Dust coated the caps, and the labels had faded with time. Forgotten things. Forgotten man.

"You're not disgusted?" he asked, voice quieter this time.

"No," I said, meaning it.

"These wounds need to be treated. I don't care what the others have done or ignored. I won't."

He didn't respond, but didn't stop me either.

I worked slowly, cleaning and dressing the wounds with care. He winced, and once I saw a tear slip from the corner of his eye, but he said nothing. Just endured.

By the time I finished, my fingers were stained with blood and ointment, but I felt... steady. Solid. As though I'd carved out a sliver of purpose in this cruel arrangement.

When I looked up, he was watching me. His blue eyes, haunted and tired held something softer now.

Hope? No. But maybe... curiosity.

That night, I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, sleep refusing to come.

Darius Blackthorn was dying. And if he did, I'd be dragged into the grave beside him.

I couldn't let that happen.

I racked my mind, sifting through possibilities. Escape was impossible, the palace was locked tighter than any prison. I had no allies, no coin, no strength to fight.

But then it came to me.

Pregnancy.

According to pack law, no pregnant she-wolf could be executed. The unborn were considered sacred and untouchable. If I conceived Darius's child, they'd have to spare me.

My heart pounded with a new, dangerous kind of hope.

Could I convince him?

The next morning, I rose early and made my way to the kitchens. If I was going to care for him, he needed real food. Something nourishing.

What I found instead made my stomach twist.

The kitchen was grand but stale. The counters were cluttered with limp vegetables, sour meat, and half-rotted fruit. I searched for someone, anyone to help. I spotted a cook ladling porridge into bowls.

"Excuse me," I said. "Is there anything fresher than this?"

She looked me over, her gaze flat. "Not your concern. Leave."

I didn't. I watched as she took a soft, molding squash from a bin, chopped off the worst bits, and sautéed the rest.

"Who is that for?" I asked, though I already feared the answer.

She didn't bother replying. Instead, she plated the food onto an ornate silver tray, the kind reserved for royalty and carried it toward Darius's wing.

My chest tightened.

They were feeding him scraps. Garbage disguised as cuisine.

No wonder his wounds weren't healing. They were poisoning him one meal at a time.

I stood in the doorway, fists clenched at my sides.

They wanted him to die.

And now I knew: If I wanted to save him, I'd have to do more than dress wounds.