Chapter 114 – The One Who Called Me Back
Agony.
It came first, blistering and raw. A bone-deep fire that licked through every nerve, every shattered rib and bruised muscle. Rowan groaned as breath clawed its way into his lungs, dry and ragged. He tasted blood—his own—metallic and warm, pooling at the back of his throat. His body felt like a battlefield, one he’d barely crawled away from.
And maybe he had.
Something heavy pressed against his chest, warm and trembling.
Then he heard it.
A sob—sharp and wet, torn from a throat too raw to hide the pain. Arms were around him, desperate and shaking, holding him like he might slip away again if she let go. A face buried against his neck, tears soaking his skin.
“Giselle…” The name rasped from his mouth like a broken prayer.
She froze, then jerked back.
Rowan blinked against the blinding light of the morning sun and found himself staring into the eyes of his mate.
Tears streaked down her cheeks in rivers, her lips parted in shock, her chest rising and falling as though she’d run straight through hell. Her sword lay forgotten at her side, her hands now cradling his face as if afraid he would vanish between her fingers.
“You came back,” she whispered. Her voice cracked on the second word, and then the dam broke.
She crushed him against her, arms locking around his neck, her sobs muffled against his shoulder. Rowan hissed as pain screamed through his ribs, but he didn’t pull away.
He couldn’t.
He buried his nose in her hair, inhaling the scent that had anchored him through the dark—earthy and wild and *hers.* The bond between them pulsed like a heartbeat, newly reignited, stronger than ever.
“I heard you,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “You brought me back.”
She pulled away just enough to see his face, her fingers trembling as she brushed sweat-drenched hair from his forehead.
“I thought I lost you,” she whispered. “You weren’t breathing, Rowan. I—Seren said—” Her voice cracked again, and a sob burst from her throat.
Rowan raised a shaking hand to cup her cheek. It was the hardest thing he’d done—his body ached in ways that felt inhuman—but he had to touch her. Had to know she was real.
“You didn’t lose me,” he murmured, thumb brushing away her tears. “Not even death could keep me from you.”
Giselle let out a strangled laugh that was half a sob, then leaned down and pressed her forehead to his.
“I thought the goddess had taken you,” she breathed. “And I didn’t… I didn’t know how to keep going.”
“You did,” he said softly. “You *saved* me.”
Her eyes searched his, wide with disbelief and heartbreak and fierce, unrelenting love. Rowan felt it all pouring into him through their bond—like sunlight warming frozen skin.
He grimaced as another jolt of pain shot through his side, and she immediately shifted, her hands moving to brace his body more gently.
“You’re hurt,” she whispered, panic flashing in her gaze.
“Hurts like hell,” he admitted, wincing. “But I’ll live.”
She laughed again, this time wet and breathless. “You damn well better.”
Rowan managed a crooked smile. “Wasn’t planning on leaving you, mate.”
Giselle kissed him then. Soft, desperate, her lips trembling against his. And when she pulled back, her tears had slowed, but her eyes burned brighter than ever.
“We won,” she whispered.
He didn’t ask how. He didn’t need to—not with the power he felt in her, the way she radiated strength and magic and something ancient now fully awakened.
His mate.
His warrior.
Rowan let his eyes drift closed again, her scent and warmth wrapping around him like armor. The pain hadn’t faded, and his body felt like it had been torn apart and stitched back together with lightning.
But he was alive. She was here. And that was enough.
Footsteps approached through the soft hush of the aftermath. Rowan turned his head, only slightly, and hissed at the motion. But then he saw her—Avella—her dark braid swinging against her shoulder as she knelt beside him, arms full of glass jars and folded cloth. Her pale eyes flicked to his, and something passed between them. Recognition. Familiarity. A quiet strength forged through shared pain.
She’d done this before. For Giselle.
And now, she was here for him.
“I’ve got him,” Avella murmured, setting down her supplies with careful hands. Her fingers moved deftly, spreading a thick, silvery paste across the worst of the wounds on his chest and ribs. It was cool to the touch at first, almost soothing, before it began to tingle and burn in sharp, rhythmic pulses.
Rowan clenched his jaw but didn’t cry out.
“I know it hurts,” Avella said softly, not pausing her work. “But it’ll stop the bleeding, and help the skin close enough for your wolf to take over the healing.”
“Not your first battlefield,” Rowan muttered, his voice hoarse but steady.
Avella’s lips curved in a grim smile. “Not my last, either.”
She wrapped gauze over one of the deeper gashes and smeared more paste across his cracked collarbone. Her hands were steady. Practiced. Rowan watched Giselle lean closer, her fingers threading through his, grounding them both.
Then her eyes drifted—past him, to where Seren stood watching them.
“You were ready for this,” Giselle said quietly. Her voice didn’t shake, but it didn’t need to—there was steel in it. Certainty.
Seren didn’t flinch under her gaze. She didn’t look away.
“You saw this ending, didn’t you?” Giselle asked, more a statement than a question.
The Seer didn’t respond with words. She didn’t have to.
Her silence was its own kind of answer—heavy, reverent, a weight pressing on all of them.
Rowan felt the prickle of gooseflesh rise on his skin.
The look Seren gave was one of resignation. Acceptance. Of one who had carried the burden of knowledge long before this moment came to pass.
“I had to be ready,” she said finally, voice low and distant, as if it echoed from another realm. “The alternative to being prepared...” She trailed off, eyes flicking to Rowan, to the blood staining the grass, to the scorched earth where magic had torn the world apart. “…couldn’t be risked.”
Something inside Rowan clenched at those words. He wasn’t sure what she meant. What other outcome she might have seen if they hadn’t been ready—if they hadn’t fought hard enough, or if Giselle hadn’t chosen to rise.
But he didn’t ask. Didn’t want to know.
Because whatever the alternative had been—it hadn’t ended with Giselle beside him, her hand holding his, her lips whispering him back from the dark.
He swallowed hard and looked up at her, her wild hair tangled from battle, her eyes rimmed red from tears and fury.
His mate. His warrior. His heart.
She noticed his gaze and leaned down to kiss his forehead, then pressed her cheek against his.
“You’re safe,” she whispered. “And we’re together.”
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