Page 27 of Saved By The King's Gamma

“He’s burning up,” Gannon mutters, leaning over to inspect Kyson. I can see beads of sweat rolling down the king’s face, his breathing coming in ragged gasps. His usually commanding presence is gone, replaced by something fragile and unsettling.

“What’s happening to him?” I whisper, my voice trembling as I glance between Gannon and Damian.

Gannon gives me a quick glance. “The king’s bond with Azalea. Her scent—her heat—it’s overwhelming his senses. She refused to mate because he wouldn’t retrieve you; this is a consequence of that. Lycans can’t ignore their heat cycles; it affects both the male and female.” He glances at Kyson again, his expression tense.

“Wait, she came to get me knowing she was in heat?” I ask horrified at the sacrifices she continually makes because of me.

“The king stopped her heat but it didn’t stop for him, and now she is injured and her medication worn off, they are in full blown heat. I should lock them in a fucking room until they complete the bond,” Damian growls angrily, like this whole situation has him infuriated.

I nod slowly. It makes sense, in a way, but seeing the king like this—vulnerable and barely holding on—feels strange. He’s always seemed so untouchable, so powerful. To see him brought low by something he can’t control is… unsettling.

“We need to get them inside,” he says. “Gannon, help me carry the king,” Damian says.

Gannon steps forward to assist Damian. Together, they lift Kyson, careful not to jostle him too much. The king mumbles something under his breath, but his words are slurred and unintelligible. Azalea remains unconscious, her head resting against Dustin’s shoulder as they start toward the castle.

I trail behind them, feeling out of place. My body aches with every step, but I push the pain aside, too concerned about Azalea—and even Kyson—to care about my own discomfort. I watch as they disappear through the grand doors of the castle, leaving me standing outside in the cool night air, unsure of what to do.

I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself, but the weight of everything that’s happened crashes down on me. I was rescued—but at what cost? Azalea is unconscious, the king is barely holding on, and I’m standing here covered in dried blood, dirt, and the lingering scent of Kade.

I swallow hard, pushing the memories away. This isn’t the time to fall apart.

I take a shaky step forward, forcing myself to follow them inside. Chaos reigns the moment I step through the grand doors. Damian yells for assistance echo through the corridor, summoning other guards to help. Gannon and Damian rush past me, carrying Kyson toward his quarters while Dustin follows with Azalea. My heart clenches at the sight of her, so small and fragile in his arms.

Standing in the corridor, I don’t know what to do with myself. I feel like a ghost, invisible amidst the frantic movement of guards and servants. I want to follow them, to check on Azalea, but I know better. The timing isn’t right. The king is unwell, and they’ll be focused on him. I’d only be in the way.

My gaze drifts back toward where they disappeared down the hall, and for a moment, I’m torn. Should I wait here for Gannon? Or go find Clarice? I hesitate, unsure. Gannon already did so much for me. I don’t want to be a burden by bothering him now.

Uncertain of what to do, I walk around. The castle feels both familiar and foreign at the same time. It’s strange being back here, like stepping into a life I thought I’d left behind.

13

Gannon gave me some of his blood, so the worst of my injuries are healed. I wander aimlessly until I inadvertently reach my previous quarters. Tentatively, I rap on the door in case Beta Damian has enlisted a new personal servant. Met with silence, I cautiously push the door ajar and glance inside only to find the entire guard quarter downstairs also empty; I wonder if I should clean here first since the guard quarters were also tasked to me. The hour grows late, and I decide to see Clarice in the morning about where she plans to assign me and decide I should just stay out of everyone’s way and go to bed.

Stepping into the room that used to be mine, I find the bed bare, so I mosey down the hall to the closet and retrieve some blankets and pillows. The task is made more difficult by my wounds. The stitches are pulled so tight that some are cutting through my skin like cheese wire.

Blood covers almost every inch of me. It has congealed in my hair and under my fingernails. I swiftly make the bed but realize I can’t sleep in this condition. I head to the laundry room, scanning for clean clothes. I spot some servant uniforms, pajamas, and a pair of socks on the shelf, I snatch them before grabbing a towel and searching through the first aid kit for antibacterial soap. As I limp toward the servants’ bathrooms, my bones ache, every step a painful reminder of the ordeal I’ve been through.

Stepping inside, I find it empty. One side of the bathroom holds stalls for showering while a half wall divides the middle to the toilets and basins; long mirrors run the entire length of the center wall on both sides.

As I pass it to head into one of the shower stalls, I glance at the state I’m in. My normal auburn hair is matted, twigs and leaves are tangled in the knots. My clothes are torn, and I can still smell his scent all over me. Gannon’s, too, but Kade’s is still there. My heart pangs at the thought of him.

The way he lay dead in the dirt. My mate, though cruel, was mine or supposed to be. Staring at what is left of me as I peel off my clothes, I’m disgusted.

My skin marred from years in the orphanage is already horrifying to look at, though my scars were never deep or as jagged as Azaleas. I have always felt terrible for how she hates her appearance and the lashes that mar her.

She had taken so many whippings reserved for me, and I had done the same for her. Gazing at them, I used to think it was a reminder of what we endured and survived. Though these marks were left at the hands of Kade, I notice something so much worse.

I never survived at all. Instead, I moved from one hell to another. Staring at my ravaged flesh, I am not so sure anyone can look at me again and be anything but disgusted by the sight of me. There are multiple marks on my neck from him that have turned my flesh black like it is rotting away my skin, the skin raised jagged, same as the scars etched into my heart. The hollow void feels like it will never be filled again—bottomless. I press my lips together to stop crying out when I peel my shirt off, dumping it on the floor.

I hiss as I force my pants down my legs. The blood saturates my pants, sticking to my skin and making me feel like I’m being skinned alive. Tears blur my vision, and I bite back the sob as my stitches open and blood cascades down my leg in a stream. I try to step out of my pants when hands fall on my hips, making me jump and hiss as the stitches along my arms and ribs tug from the movement.

“I was looking for you,” Gannon murmurs. He kneels, peeling them off, and I grip his shoulder, stepping out of them. He kisses my hip bone, which protrudes beneath my skin. The blood rushes to my cheeks, knowing I am now standing naked in front of the man.

“Why are you in the servant bathroom?” he asks, standing back up. Keeping my back to him, I cover my breasts. Not that there is much point with the giant mirrors. I know he can see every vile inch of me if he glances at them.

“I didn’t know where else to go. You disappeared, and I didn’t want to bother Clarice to find out where I would be stationed. So I went back to my old station,” I tell him.

“You should have just gone to our room.”

---