Archive of Our Own

The war room was suffocating.

Alina paced the length of the chamber, her fingers twisting together, her stomach in knots so tight she felt sick. Afternoon light slanted through the high windows, casting long, golden streaks across the maps spread over the wide table. At some point, she had pressed her palms against the cool surface, bracing herself, trying to breathe through the rising terror clawing up her throat.

There was no reason for her to be here—nobody else was, especially not Kirigan. But the Little Palace was too vast right now, too hollow, and she couldn’t bear sitting alone in her chambers.

The war room, at least, kind of held his presence, even in his absence. It was in the lingering touch of his hand on the map edges, in the faint trace of ink where his fingers had once pressed. His essence felt like a tangible force here, like remnants of his power and quiet control, of something unwavering.

This morning, messengers had arrived at the Little Palace with grim faces, bloodstained Keftas, and desperate calls for Healers, bringing reports from an attack. A Grisha unit, led by the Black General himself, had been ambushed on their way back to Os Alta. Details were scarce. A slaughter. Casualties unknown. Survivors still making their way back.
Some had arrived by now—injured, bloody, half-conscious— but not him. Not the only one she needed to see.
Aleksander. Alina squeezed her eyes shut. The thought of his name alone made her chest ache.

Anxiously, her fingers skimmed along the edge of parchments, brushing against the maps he so often studied, his brow furrowed in deep thought. Always so composed, always with that unshakable presence that made her feel— safe.

And maybe that was the cruellest part—how easily she had come to rely on that sense of safety. How, in just a few days, she had let him become her anchor in a world that was too overwhelming in every regard.

At first, it had been the palace itself—its endless halls, only adding to the weight of responsibility, the expectations pressing in from every side. But soon enough, it had been him, too—Aleksander, in all his quiet intensity, in the way he pulled her in without even trying.

She couldn’t remember when exactly fascination had turned into something more—when she had stopped seeing him as just her General and started seeing… something else entirely.

Sadly, she didn’t know what she was to him. If anything at all.
Aleksander was always so calm, so impossible to read—his gaze lingering on her just long enough to steal her breath, only to look away as if nothing had passed between them. She couldn’t tell if it was duty, curiosity, something more… or nothing at all.
She had spent these last weeks wondering where she truly stood with him—and now she might never know.
With him gone—possibly never coming back—it felt like the ground beneath her was crumbling.

But... they would have told her if he had died. Wouldn’t they? She started pacing again.
She would know. Wouldn’t she? There was a bond between them, that was undeniable. And yet—
The panic inside her was agonizing by now.
What if the next stretcher brought in held him? What if he was beyond help? What if he was somewhere out there, alone, dying, and nobody —

In that moment, as if summoned by her worst nightmares and greatest prayers, he appeared in the doorway. Pale and exhausted, his normally commanding presence reduced to something quiet and fragile.
His breath was shallow, as if he hadn’t caught it in hours. The black of his Kefta was dull with dust, the fabric torn in places. A faint, dried mark darkened the corner of his jaw—not his own blood, she realized distantly, but someone else’s. His hair, usually immaculate, was wild, stray strands clinging damp to his forehead. And he looked so tired.
But he was on his feet.
He was alive.

Alina barely registered the sound she made—something between a painful sob and a sharp gasp. She didn’t think—couldn’t think—just closed the distance between them in a few frantic steps.

Pressing her shaking hands against his chest, she felt the solid warmth beneath the ruined Kefta, before the floodgates broke. Tears spilled over, hot and relentless.

He stiffened, startled, confused. His dark eyes widened, flickering between her face and her hands on his chest. And then, with a gentleness that sent a tremor through her, his fingers came up to frame her face.

"Alina," he murmured, voice low and hoarse. "I’m here. I’m all right."

And that was the breaking point. Something inside her gave way.

The fear, the panic, the unbearable relief—it crashed into her all at once, an unstoppable tide, and before she could think, before she could hesitate, she moved.

She rose onto her toes and kissed him.

For a moment, nothing existed except the feel of his lips against hers; then reality slammed back into her. He didn’t move. His lips were warm but still, his breath caught somewhere in his throat, as if the very concept of her doing this was beyond comprehension.

Oh, Saints, what had come over her?

Alina pulled back instantly, mortified. Heat flooded her face, her pulse roaring in her ears.
But then—
Then she saw the look on his face.

Aleksander stared at her like he had just glimpsed the sun for the first time in his life. Disbelieving, stunned—hopeful.

It struck her like a lightning bolt, the sheer force of it. The way his lips were parted slightly, the way his fingers trembled against her skin, the way his pupils were dilated as if he ached for more.

And in that moment, she knew.

He felt it, too.

Alina’s breath hitched. The fear, the doubt—it melted away instantly, replaced by something unstoppable.
She surged forward, capturing his lips with hers once more.

This time, he responded.

A low, almost shattered sound rumbled in his throat—half sigh, half something deeper—as he met her halfway. His hands slid into her hair, tilting her face up, angling the kiss to something slower, more intense.

He reacted to her like— like he had been waiting for this moment for a lifetime. Passion laced with tenderness, urgency and care all tangled together.

But then—he pulled back.

Not fully, not completely—his lips hovered just above hers, his breath warm against her skin, his dark eyes searching hers. His fingers curled ever so slightly where they cupped her face.

He was giving her a choice—a moment to step back, to change her mind.

Alina didn’t.

And then he kissed her.

It was as if something inside him had finally broken free.

There was no hesitation now, no restraint. He kissed her the way he commanded battlefields—with absolute control and devastating precision. It should have been overwhelming, but it wasn’t. It was steady. Certain. He pulled her closer, one hand at the nape of her neck, the other splayed across her waist, fingers pressing just enough to make her shudder in anticipation.

But even as he took, he gave—allowed her to set the pace, never pushed too far, never demanded more than she was ready to offer.

It was intoxicating.

Alina melted into him as his lips claimed hers with a kind of intensity that sent shivers racing down her spine. He kissed like a man starved, but still, somehow, he made sure she could breathe, made sure she was right there with him, every motion both possessive and unbearably tender.

His hands traced over her, fingertips skimming down her arms—featherlight, yet burning like fire.

Time unravelled, lost in the heat between them, in the way Kirigan held her—solid, warm, unrelenting. Every press of his lips was a question, a promise, a slow-burning confession sending a shivering pulse of want straight to her core.
His long, graceful fingers mapped the curve of her jaw, the line of her throat. It felt like he was memorizing her. Like he never wanted to forget the shape of her against him.

She had never been kissed like this.

And Saints above, she didn’t want it to stop.

She clung to him, fingers tangled in the thick black fabric of his Kefta, barely aware that her hands had already wandered beneath. She let herself sink into him, into the way his hands tightened at her sides, the way his breath stuttered when she pressed closer.
There was nothing careful about this anymore. There was only want. Fierce, undeniable, reckless.

Somehow, in the push and pull between them, they shifted, until—suddenly—her back met the war table.

Before she could process it, Aleksander reacted. His grip on her waist tightened, lifting her effortlessly—almost. A miscalculation, a moment of imbalance, her hip bumping the edge, drawing a soft, startled squeak from her. His breath shuddered against her lips, and he panted a hoarse 'Sorry,' into the kiss as he placed her on the polished surface.
But she barely registered that mishap, her mind too consumed with everything else. Gasping at the shift in height, her legs instinctively parted to make space for him between them.

Kirigan followed without hesitation, moulding himself against her as if he had always belonged there. He settled between her thighs, hands sliding along her hips, his own fitting perfectly against hers.

Alina’s heart thundered, an intense heat unfurling inside her. The friction coiled low in her belly, dizzying, but it wasn’t enough. She wanted more. She needed more; needed him even closer.
She arched against him, pressing, grinding, craving to feel the full, undeniable weight of him.
She wasn’t sure who moved first—whether it was his arms tightening around her, pulling her flush against his obvious erection, or if it was her, sliding forward toward the table’s edge, knees widening even more. But suddenly, he was close enough. Close enough for her to act on the frantic, aching need inside her.
Her legs wrapped around his slender waist, locking him in place. Hooking her ankles together behind him, she dragged him in—hard, relentless.
At that, Kirigan groaned into her mouth sharply, his body jerking violently against hers.

She nearly came then and there. His visceral reaction sent a jolt of heat through her—heady, intoxicating.
A shaky moan broke from her lips. He wanted this at least as badly as she did. The realization only made her grip him even tighter, made her press against him more desperately— and he groaned again; a guttural, strangled sound that broke off into a breathless gasp as he nearly collapsed against her.
And then, slowly, through the haze, she realized.

That wasn’t pleasure.
That was pain.

Alina froze.

Aleksander didn’t.

His breath was ragged as he tried to pull her back into the kiss, as if he could simply pretend whatever had caused this wasn’t there.

But she knew better. Something was wrong.
She pulled away just enough to look at him properly.

His eyes fluttered open, dark and dazed from kissing her. His pupils were blown wide, his lips red and swollen—but his skin was ashen, there was a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead and his breaths were shallow and uneven; too uneven to be explained by their activities.

"Aleksander?" Her voice came out in a whisper, but he was too close not to hear it. "Are you all right?"

The second the words left her mouth, he stilled. It was subtle—the way his fingers flexed against her waist, the way his jaw tightened.
But it was the answer she’d been dreading.

Her stomach dropped, her heart slamming against her ribs for completely different reasons now. „Oh, no!" she breathed.

"It’s nothing," he murmured, already shaking his head, trying to lean in again, trying to kiss her and make her forget.

She didn’t even think. She simply pressed her hands against his sides, exactly where her legs had been wrapped around him.

And he flinched. Hard. His breath hitched, sharp and strangled, his whole body tensing against hers.

Alina yanked her hands away as if burned. Her mind reeled.  “Saints!” The word was edged with something jagged, something close to panic.

With her hands on his shoulders, she guided him a step back, very carefully this time. Kirigan barely resisted, allowing her to do so. He swayed, just slightly, and that was the final confirmation she needed.

He was hurt. He was hurt, and he hadn’t said a word.
She couldn’t believe it.

“It’s nothing?” Her voice rose in disbelief. “You’re barely standing!”

His head snapped up at the sharpness in her tone. A flicker of surprise crossed his face—only just noticeable, but she caught it.

"It’s—just—" His breath stuttered, and he exhaled deliberately, carefully, as if willing himself to push through it. "A few broken ribs."

Alina felt lightheaded. "Broken ribs—please, Aleksander—"

She bolted off the table.

“Sit down,” she ordered, already grabbing his arm, already guiding him toward the sofa even as he protested.

“Alina, it’s fine—”

“SIT. Or I’ll make you sit!”

Something in her tone must have cut through his stubbornness, because he let her push him down onto the cushions, his jaw clenched, muscles trembling beneath her touch.

And that was when she realized—He wasn’t just in pain.
He had been struggling. To keep standing. To breathe.

Alina’s mind instantly filled with horrible possibilities. She immediately knelt before him, gripping his cold hands.

“You need a Healer!” Her voice shook.

Aleksander closed his eyes for a long moment. Then, quietly, he murmured, “They have enough on their hands right now.”

She could only stare, speechless. The pure, stupid self-sacrificing nonsense of that statement made her want to shake him. “Aleksander.” It came through clenched teeth, “you might have punctured a lung—”

“I haven’t,” he interrupted her wearily.

“How would you know that?”

At that, he exhaled through his nose, something wry and deeply exhausted in his expression.
“Because, my love,” he mumbled, voice quieter now, wheezier, “in my long, long life I have endured nearly every injury possible. I know how that feels. This is not it; I can breathe just fine.”

“Are you kidding??? You don’t seem to get enough air right now, sitting there!” Alina couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “I don’t care how much you’ve been through in your long, stubborn, dramatic life. I refuse to let you suffer through this!”

His lips quirked a fraction. “Dramatic?” He seemed almost amused at her exasperation.

“Oh, shut up!”

It may have come out much harder than she intended, because at that, Aleksander deflated visibly. His body seemed to sink even deeper into the sofa.
“It’s not necessary, Alina,” he repeated, so very quiet now. “I just—don’t want to be locked in the infirmary for observation while there are others who need it more.”

For observation?  A cold feeling twisted in Alina's gut. What was he talking about?
“Why...,” she swallowed, not sure she wanted to hear the answer, “why would you need to stay in the infirmary for broken ribs?”

Silence.

“Because,” he muttered finally, barely audible, "there might be something... bleeding, too."

The air around her seemed to still, the world tilting slightly off its axis. Alina’s pulse roared in her ears. “You have internal bleeding?” she screeched.

Aleksander winced. “Possible internal bleeding,” he corrected, as if that made a damn bit of difference.

She had to reach for the armrest of the sofa to keep herself upright, breath shallow, mind racing. He had internal injuries. And he couldn’t even be bothered to tell her.
“You—you—” Her voice shook, she could barely speak “You let me—” She gestured wildly toward the table, where she had wrapped her legs around him, pulled him against her—
“Please, Aleksander, what if I made it worse?!” She practically started crying again in pure despair.

Something exhausted and forlorn passed over his expression at her panic, and he sagged slightly, his head tipping back against the sofa.
“You made nothing worse” he murmured, “Please believe me. I know what dying feels like. And right now, I’m not.”

The words landed like a blade between her ribs, cold and slicing.
It might have been meant as reassurance, but it did nothing to calm her. On the contrary—it only made her stomach twist harder. It took everything in her not to follow that thought to its terrifying conclusion. How many times? How close had he come?

She sucked in a quivering breath, her pulse slamming against her throat.
He must have seen something in her face, because his gaze turned contrite. “Alina… I promise you—I’m fine.”

She wanted to believe him. Really, she wanted to.
But looking at him now—at the way he lay before her, broken, raw and utterly miserable—it was nearly impossible.
His voice was so low. So frayed.

And—honestly—just the tiniest bit whiny.

It was such a ridiculous contrast—Ravka’s Black General, sulking on the couch like a scolded child—that Alina almost laughed through her tears.
Almost.
If she hadn’t been so terrified.

Aleksander obviously recognized it. Because as he observed her, the fight drained out of him at last.
And then he did something that shattered her completely: he smiled.
A small, defeated, almost helpless smile. “Please don’t cry,” he begged tiredly. “I’m going to be fine, I’m healing already. I just want to stay here. With you.”

And something about the way he said it—soft, honest, unguarded—made her believe him.
She felt it in her bones, in the quiet certainty of his words. He wasn’t lying. He didn’t have the strength to.

Heavens, he looked so unbearably sad like this.
And just like that—Alina was done for.
Her fingers were moving before she could stop them. She reached out, brushing an unsteady hand through his dark hair, smoothing it back, as if that could do anything to ease the exhaustion carved into his face.
He wasn’t dying.
But he was still hurt. Badly. And she hated seeing him like this.

But then—She had an idea. The best idea.

She let out a deep breath, reaching out to take his hands in hers once more.
“Aleksander,” she murmured, “look at me.”

He did. Dark, weary eyes locked with hers.

For a moment, she just held his gaze, tracing her thumbs over his cold fingers. Then, she leaned in, her lips just barely brushing his ear.
“For what I plan to do to you,” she murmured, voice dangerously low, “you need to be in perfect health.”

Aleksander froze.
Then, slowly, he pushed her back just enough to search her face.
„...plan to do…?” He echoed, unsteady, eyes wide with something between disbelief and hope.

Alina grinned.
„You heard me. “

At that, Aleksander perked up. His lips parted in a small smile, his expression brightening.
For the first time since he arrived, a little colour returned to his face.
“Saints,” he breathed.

She smirked. „So. Are you going to let me call a Healer, or are you going to risk never finding out exactly what I mean? “

A long pause.
Then—
„…Fine. “

That settled it. She was getting him medical attention.
“Alright!” She had already jumped to her feet. “Stay there—and do not move—I’m getting help.”

Aleksander groaned slightly, but it was half-hearted, and Alina didn’t give him the chance to argue. She was already sprinting.

She barely registered her own frantic breathing as she ran. The walls of the Little Palace blurred past her, her pulse hammering louder than the sound of her own footfalls.
Internal bleeding—how could he be so stubborn, so reckless, so utterly, infuriatingly—
Her thoughts slammed to a stop when she rounded the corner to the infirmary doors and ran straight into Ivan.

He caught her before she could stumble, his grip firm, unyielding.

His face remained unreadable, dark eyes betraying nothing—but his fingers tightened ever so slightly around her arms, steadying her.
He was a soldier. A shield. A man who had spent years keeping Kirigan alive.

For the briefest moment, his gaze flicked over her—her hair, her lips—before locking back onto her eyes. Alina swallowed; he knew.
But he didn’t waste time with unnecessary inquiries.

"Where is he?"

“His rooms!”
Ivan turned on his heel and barked a single name, sharp as a command. “LEV!”

Further down the medical wing, a figure immediately broke away from the cluster of wounded; a tall man, broad-shouldered but lean, his greying dark hair pulled back into a rough tie. His face was lined, not with age alone but with the weight of years spent patching Grisha back together. Sharp, questioning eyes found Ivan's as he closed the distance without hesitation.
"It’s him."
Ivan didn’t need to say more. With a quiet “Damn,” Lev fell into step beside them, Kefta fluttering as they sprinted through the halls.

The door was ajar when they arrived, just as she had left it.
Alina didn’t bother knocking. She shoved it open and—
Her lungs seized. The world tilted beneath her feet.

Aleksander was still there. But he lay utterly motionless. He had slumped to the side, head lolling, his features slack. His long lashes cast shadows against his cheeks, unmoving against his white, bloodless skin.

And for one terrifying, gut-wrenching moment, she was certain he wasn’t breathing.
A strangled noise tore from her throat. Her vision tunnelled, the room warping around the singular, awful sight of him.
No.

She started toward him, hands reaching out, but Ivan was faster. His arm shot across her path, stopping her short.
“Relax, Starkov.” His voice was steady. “He’s alive. Just unconscious.”

Alina gasped, but it felt like her lungs had forgotten how to work. Her knees nearly buckled, her pulse hammering so hard it made her ears ring. Saints, she had thought—
She swallowed hard, shoving the thought away before it could fully form.

Lev was already kneeling beside the sofa, hands above the General’s chest, moving in intense gestures; searching, finding.
For the longest, agonizing moment, the man was silent; then he exhaled sharply.
“Spleen,” he murmured. “Ruptured. But the bleeding has mostly stopped by now, thanks to his superior healing abilities.”

Alina felt lightheaded.
He had been right. He wasn’t dying.
But he wasn’t okay either.

Ivan muttered a curse under his breath. “Anything more?”
“Several fractured ribs.”
The older Grisha shifted, glancing at them. “I need to put him into a deeper sleep. Otherwise, the healing will hurt too much.”

Alina nodded numbly but Lev had already turned away again and started gesturing once more.
Kirigan’s breathing stuttered. His body jerked once, then he went completely limp again.

The grey-haired man then turned to Ivan, giving him a grim nod. “Help me remove his clothing. I need to see what I’m dealing with.”

She watched with gritted teeth as Aleksander was shifted by the two men—carefully, gently.  The shredded Kefta was eased off his limp frame, the dark fabric discarded carelessly on the floor. His tunic followed, exposing the extensive damage to his torso.
Alina gasped. His side was a nightmare of bruises and deep contusions that marred the skin like a grotesque tapestry. The bottommost ribs curved sharply inward, the skin there swollen, dark with pooled blood, the bruising spreading in deep, angry streaks along his flank.
For a moment, she couldn’t even breathe. Her stomach churned.

Lev wasted no time. A new surge of power flooded through Kirigan’s unresponsive body; bruises began to fade, as shattered ribs knitted back together, as the worst of the internal damage sealed itself shut.
Still, Aleksander didn’t stir.

Nonetheless, the tension in her chest slowly loosened.

Ivan had taken position next to her again, his expression carved from stone.
But Alina saw it.
The muscle in his jaw, tight with barely restrained tension. The way his gaze never once left Kirigan’s face. The way his hands curled into fists at his sides, then relaxed, then curled again—controlled, measured, but not calm.
He said nothing. Didn’t move. But his silence felt charged, coiled too tightly. And then, barely above a whisper, he growled something low under his breath.

Alina’s head snapped up.
Was that old Ravkan? It sounded like a… barely contained curse!?
“Excuse me?”

“Foolish Generals,” he muttered.

Now that she understood. But before she could react, Ivan continued.
“This one will never admit how much pain he’s in.” He barely spared her a glance. “I told him to get checked the moment we returned. He ignored me.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Alina’s jaw clenched. “He will be hearing about it.”
Ivan only snorted amusedly.

Minutes passed. Then, finally—finally—Lev sat back on his heels with a weary exhale. “That’s the worst of it.” He wiped a sheen of sweat from his brow. “He’ll be weak for a few hours. Maybe a bit longer. The internal damage is healed. His ribs will still ache though, but they’re no longer broken.”

Alina’s hands, still shaking, curled around the edge of her sleeves, gripping the fabric as if it could ground her. “Thank you,” she whispered. The words barely made it past the tightness in her throat.
The Healer only nodded. He was already moving, rolling Kirigan carefully onto his back.

Ivan crouched beside him, movements uncharacteristically gentle as he reached for the General’s boots. One by one, he slipped them off with practiced care.

The trousers followed, replaced with the soft linen of fresh sleepwear—clothing meant for rest, for warmth, for comfort.
Aleksander didn’t move under their hands, his body unnervingly slack, the weight of unconsciousness having stolen even the smallest reflex.

Alina swallowed hard. He was so still. Too still.
Despite the careful way they dressed him, despite the absence of any true injury now, Alina couldn’t shake the hollow ache in her chest.
He looked—
Wrong.

Aleksander normally was a force. A man who commanded space, who seemed to fill a room simply by existing.
But now, he was limp in their grasp, yielding without a sound, his slender frame rocking helplessly with each of their movements.
And that was nearly unbearable.

When Kirigan was dressed, Lev’s gaze swept over him again with the careful attention of a man used to patching his commander back together.
Then, he glanced at Ivan. “Infirmary?”

Ivan shook his head once. “Bedroom,” he rumbled.

Lev gave a small nod, then they lifted him with practiced ease, moving with the kind of steady assurance that only came from experience.
Alina hurried ahead, pulling back the blankets.
They eased him onto the bed, his dark hair spilling across the pillows. He didn’t stir, didn’t even twitch as they adjusted his position, as Lev tucked thick covers around him.

When he was finally settled into layers of warmth, his body completely at rest, the relief in the air was palpable.

Alina exhaled slowly.

Ivan’s shoulders dropped slightly, tension easing from his posture.

Lev closed his eyes for a moment. A few careful gestures followed—deliberate, precise—as if he was double-checking for any sign of renewed bleeding stirred by their handling.
Only when satisfied, did he give Ivan a pointed look. “If he pulls something like this again—”

“Don’t worry. Not anytime soon,” Ivan assured him flatly. He jerked his chin in Alina’s direction. “She won’t let him.”

Alina blinked.
The certainty in his voice caught her off guard. Ivan wasn’t speaking to her—he was stating a fact. In his mind, this was already decided. She would keep watch over Kirigan now, too.

Lev gave her an approving, almost amused look before turning back to Ivan. “Regardless, he needs to be monitored closely through the night.”

Alina stilled. Because that was exactly what Kirigan himself had said earlier. He had been right.

Ivan, without hesitation, turned to her. “You’ll call me if anything changes.” It wasn’t a question.

Alina opened her mouth, but no words came out. The realization hit her swiftly: it wasn’t Ivan who would be keeping watch tonight.
It was her.
She had been tasked with this, as though it was the most natural thing in the world.

Ivan grunted at her silence, already heading for the door. “Check his pulse every ten minutes. If it speeds up, he bleeds again.” He hesitated only once, glancing back. “You’ve got that,” he assured her simply.

And then he was gone, Lev close behind.

Alina blinked after them, frozen for a heartbeat—staring at the empty doorway as if trying to make sense of what he had just left her with.
It wasn’t an order. It wasn’t a demand. It was trust. Trust that she would take care of their General. Trust that she could.
And coming from Ivan, Kirigan’s fiercest protector, it meant the world.

The room was quiet now.
Alina took a seat on the edge of the bed, staring at Aleksander’s handsome face.
His hair was a mess against the pillows, his cheeks still drained of colour. And yet… despite his exhaustion, there was a peacefulness to his expression that settled something deep inside her.

Carefully, she bent down, brushing her lips softly against his forehead. Her breath caught in her throat as she pulled back, her fingers tracing the edge of his cheek.
His skin was still marked with faint traces of dirt, the remnants of blood on the corner of his jaw, the ghost of dried sweat at his hairline.

Before she even realized what she was doing, she reached for the basin of water by the bedside, dampening a cloth.
With quiet, deliberate care, she brushed it over his forehead, along his cheekbones, wiping away the remnants of battle. His breath remained steady, undisturbed, his features still unsettlingly slack and unmoving, despite the cool touch.

Satisfied, she finally set the cloth aside, folding it neatly over the edge of the basin.

For a moment, she just sat there, staring at him — this impossible, stubborn man who had scared her half to death.

So much had changed in such a short time.

Hours ago, she hadn’t known if he was still alive.
And now, here she was, on his bed, her body still tingling from the memory of his hands, his lips, the way he had yielded to her as if she were the only thing in the world that mattered.

She had kissed him because it had been unbearable not to. And he had kissed her back. Wild with need, with reverence, with something so raw it had stolen the breath from her lungs.

Alina swallowed. There was no undoing this. No pretending they were only what they had been before. There were no more titles between them, no more careful lines.
That shift — Saints, it was seismic.
At least for her.

She let out a slow breath, her fingers brushing against his shoulder gently, carefully. Would he regret it when he woke?
Would he draw back, slip his mask of quiet command back into place?
The thought sent a strange ache through her chest.

But then — before she could spiral further — something changed; subtle, but unmistakable.
His breathing had shifted — still slow, still shallow, but no longer unnaturally even; his lashes started fluttering slightly.
This wasn’t the motionless heaviness of Healer-induced unconsciousness anymore.

Alina’s hand stilled as she watched him carefully. And then Aleksander started moving.

His breathing hitched, and he let out the faintest, almost desperate exhale—he was suddenly restless, caught in the fragile space between sleep and unease.
His brow furrowed, his lips parted — and then, barely audible, rough and wrecked, he whispered her name.

"Alina."

It was nothing more than a breath, but it shattered her. There was no command in it, no control — only need.

For a second, she couldn’t move. She could only stare at him, her heart breaking wide open. His face was still so drawn, his features twisted in something close to misery — and even in unconsciousness, he looked like he was in pain.
Her throat tightened.
Lev had warned them — the ribs would still ache. And now she saw it.

Alina didn’t hesitate. She moved — quick, instinctive — slipping of her kefta and sliding under the covers beside him, wrapping her arms around him without a second thought.

And the moment she did, the change was immediate.
Aleksander exhaled, a deep, shuddering sigh that sent warmth ghosting over her collarbone. His muscles loosened, the lingering traces of unease melting from his frame as soon as she held him.
Alina felt it happen— the exact moment his breathing evened out, the way his body softened against hers, no longer searching, no longer fighting the pull of rest.



Relieved, Alina adjusted her hold. She let her gaze trace over him fondly, a quiet sigh escaping her. "Saints, Aleksander…" It came out shaky, somewhere between a laugh and a sob, "you would’ve gotten me into your bed without that much drama, you know."

And yet, beneath that fragile attempt at humour, the weight remained — the steady undercurrent of responsibility.

She had to watch over him.
And she would.

Alina shifted carefully, resting her head lightly against his shoulder. One hand found his chest, palm flattening over the steady thrum of his heart, feeling the warmth of him through the soft fabric of his sleepwear.
Thankfully, his pulse was steady. No alarming spikes. No sign of new bleeding. Just… exhaustion. And the ghost of pain lingering at the edges of his rest.

She stayed still for a moment, feeling the weight of it all settle heavy in her chest — then, almost without thinking, she leaned in, pressing closer until she could feel every breath he took.
His presence surrounded her — calm, unshakable — and for the first time since this nightmare began, she allowed herself to breathe.

Slowly, her fingers brushed against his chest, careful, almost reverent.

"I've got you," she whispered, though he couldn’t hear it.

And she meant it.

She would watch over him, through this night and every night to come, for as long as he would allow it.

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