Chapter 249: Chapter 249 What Was Lost
Perry’s POV
Marcela had been pacing the main hall when we arrived, her hands twisted together in barely contained anxiety. The moment she spotted us, relief flooded her features—but that relief quickly twisted into something darker when she saw Phoebe unconscious in my arms.
"My king," she breathed, hurrying toward us. Her healer’s instincts kicked in immediately as her eyes swept over my mate’s pale form. "Is she injured? What happened to—"
"She’s sleeping," I cut her off, my voice sharper than intended. The protective instincts that had been stretched to their breaking point weren’t ready to stand down yet. "Exhausted, but unharmed."
I adjusted my hold on Phoebe, pulling her more securely against my chest. After hours of believing she was dead, the thought of releasing her—even to Marcela’s capable hands—felt impossible.
"Of course, my king." Marcela’s professional composure slipped back into place, but I caught the flash of hurt in her eyes. She’d served this family faithfully for years. My curtness wasn’t fair, but I couldn’t help it.
"Examine her," I ordered, already moving toward our chambers. "Thoroughly. I want to know if there are any lingering effects from... what happened."
What happened. Even now, I couldn’t bring myself to voice it fully. The memory of Phoebe’s lifeless body, the way her heart had stopped beating beneath my hands—it was too fresh, too raw.
Marcela followed silently as I carried my mate through the corridors that had felt like a tomb just hours ago. Now they were alive again, filled with the soft sound of Phoebe’s breathing and the steady rhythm of her heartbeat against my chest.
I settled Phoebe gently on our bed, but when Marcela moved to begin her examination, I found myself unable to step away.
"My king," Marcela said carefully, "I’ll need space to work."
"You can work around me." The words came out rougher than I’d intended, but I couldn’t bring myself to soften them. "I’m not leaving her."
Marcela’s eyes widened slightly at my tone, but she nodded. She’d seen me protective before, but this was different. This was an Alpha who’d tasted the loss of his mate and would kill before allowing it to happen again.
She began her examination, her movements gentle but thorough. I watched every touch, every probe, my jaw clenched as she checked Phoebe’s pulse, listened to her breathing, tested her reflexes.
"Her vitals are strong," Marcela murmured, more to herself than to me. "Heart rate, blood pressure, temperature—all normal. Whatever happened during her... awakening... doesn’t appear to have caused any physical damage."
But as she continued her assessment, I noticed something in Marcela’s demeanor that set my teeth on edge. A tension in her shoulders, a carefully controlled neutrality in her expression that spoke of secrets being kept.
"What else?" I demanded.
Marcela’s hands stilled. "My king?"
"You’re hiding something." It wasn’t a question. Years of reading enemies and allies alike had taught me to recognize deception, even from those I trusted. "What aren’t you telling me?"
"I... there’s nothing immediate to—"
"Don’t." The word came out as a growl, and Marcela actually flinched. "Don’t lie to me. Not about her. Not after everything."
For a moment, the room was silent except for the soft sound of Phoebe’s breathing. Then Marcela straightened, meeting my eyes with the courage that had made her invaluable to this family.
"There are things we need to discuss," she admitted quietly. "But perhaps after the queen has rested, when she can—"
"No." I leaned forward, my voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "You’ll tell me everything. Now."
But before Marcela could respond, Phoebe stirred in my arms, a soft murmur escaping her lips as she shifted closer to my warmth. Both Marcela and I froze, waiting to see if she would wake, but her breathing settled back into the deep rhythm of sleep.
"She needs rest," Marcela said finally, her voice barely audible. "The transformation, the trauma—her body and spirit have been through more than any wolf should endure. Sleep is the best medicine right now."
I nodded reluctantly, though every instinct screamed against letting my guard down. "How long?"
"Several hours at least. Possibly longer." Marcela gathered her supplies, but her movements were stilted, nervous. "I’ll prepare some strengthening tonics for when she wakes, and perhaps something to help with any residual pain."
"Residual pain from what?" The question snapped out before I could stop it.
Marcela’s face went carefully blank. "From the battle, my king. From everything she’s endured."
Another non-answer. Another careful deflection.
I made a mental note to corner her later, when I could focus on extracting the truth without Phoebe’s welfare demanding my immediate attention.
After Marcela left, I changed Phoebe into one of her softest nightgowns, my hands gentle as I lifted her limp form. She was so beautiful, so precious, and she’d come so close to being lost forever.
I slipped under the covers beside her, pulling her against me with desperate need. Her body fitted perfectly against mine, warm and alive and real.
"Never again," I whispered against her hair, breathing in the scent that had become as essential to me as air. "I’m never letting you out of my sight again."
Sleep should have come easily—I’d been running on adrenaline and terror for hours. But every time I closed my eyes, I saw Phoebe’s lifeless form, felt the terrible stillness of her heart beneath my hands.
Instead, I lay awake watching the rise and fall of her chest, counting each breath like prayer beads.
When she finally stirred hours later, the afternoon sun was slanting through our windows, painting golden stripes across the bed. Her eyes fluttered open, silver and beautiful and aware, and the sight sent a rush of relief through me so powerful it was almost painful.
"Perry?" Her voice was soft, slightly husky from sleep, and I’d never heard anything more beautiful.
"I’m here." I cupped her face in my hands, drinking in every detail. "How do you feel?"
"Tired," she admitted, then seemed to notice how intently I was staring at her. "Are you alright? You look..."
"Terrified," I finished honestly. "I look terrified because I am. Because I came so close to losing you that I don’t think I’ll ever fully recover from it."
Her eyes softened, and she lifted her hand to trace the worry lines that had surely deepened around my eyes. "But you didn’t lose me. I’m here."
"You are." I caught her hand, pressing it flat against my chest where my heart was beating hard enough to echo in my bones. "You’re here, and you’re alive, and I need..."
I couldn’t finish the sentence, but Phoebe seemed to understand anyway. She pulled my head down to hers, capturing my lips in a kiss that tasted like homecoming and salvation.
The kiss deepened quickly, weeks of separation and hours of grief transforming into desperate need. I mapped every curve of her mouth, reacquainted myself with the sweep of her tongue against mine, the soft sounds she made when I found that sensitive spot just below her ear.
"I need you," I confessed against her throat, my voice rough with desire and leftover fear. "I need to feel you, to know you’re really here."
"Yes," she breathed, her hands already working at the buttons of my shirt. "Please, Perry. I need you too."
But just as my hands found the soft skin of her waist, just as she arched beneath me with a sound that sent fire racing through my veins, a sharp knock at the door shattered the moment.
"My king?" Marcela’s voice was tight with something that might have been anxiety. "I have the medicines prepared. May I enter?"
I considered ignoring her, considered telling her to come back later, but something in her tone made me pause. That same carefully controlled tension I’d noticed earlier.
"Give me a moment," I called back, then pressed a apologetic kiss to Phoebe’s lips. "I’m sorry, love. Let me deal with this quickly."
I pulled on a robe and opened the door to find Marcela standing in the hallway with a tray of bottles and vials. But it was her expression that caught my attention—the way her eyes couldn’t quite meet mine, the white-knuckled grip she had on the tray.
"The strengthening tonic," she said, setting the tray on a side table. "She should take this twice daily until her strength fully returns."
"Is that all?" I asked, studying her face carefully.
Marcela’s throat worked as if she were swallowing something bitter. "My king, there’s something else. Something I need to tell you about what happened while you were away. About why I was with the queen when..."
She trailed off, but the weight of unspoken words hung heavy in the air between us.
"When what, Marcela?"
"When she needed a healer." The words came out barely above a whisper.
A chill ran down my spine. "Why would she need a healer?"
Marcela’s composure finally cracked, tears spilling down her cheeks as she looked toward the bed where Phoebe lay.
"The queen was pregnant, my king." Her voice broke on the words. "That’s why I came to the hideout. She was pregnant, but—"
"Was?" The single word dropped between us like a stone.
