67: Theodore

Emma felt impossibly light in my arms, as if her very essence had been drained along with her blood. I cradled her against my chest, my fingers careful to avoid the wound on her neck as I carried her up the stairs. The rage that had fueled me moments before had receded to a low simmer, making space for something more terrifying—a tenderness I'd never felt for anyone before her.

Elijah had helped me release her from the chair, his hands trembling with barely contained fury as he snapped the silver-infused restraints from her ankles while I freed her wrists. The metal had left angry red marks where they'd touched her skin, and I'd had to swallow back a fresh wave of hatred for Benjamin Thorne and his accomplices.

"She's going to be okay," Elijah had said, though whether he was reassuring me or himself, I couldn't tell. His fingers had brushed her cheek with brotherly gentleness before he stepped back to let me lift her.

Now, as we emerged from the basement stairwell into the more populated areas of the hotel, a hush fell over the gathered crowd. Word had spread quickly—it always did when royalty was involved. The corridor was lined with hotel staff, guests, and delegations from various packs who had come for the summit. Their expressions ranged from shock to horror to morbid curiosity as they caught sight of Emma's bloodied form in my arms.

I kept my eyes forward, my jaw set in stone. Six royal guards flanked us, creating a protective barrier between my precious cargo and the prying eyes of the crowd. Behind us came murmurs and gasps, growing louder as another procession emerged from the basement—the conspirators, bound and subdued, being led by Christian and the remaining guards.

"Is that Minister Stavros?"

"Gods, that's Bennett too—"

"The king looks ready to tear someone apart—"

"Did you see the blood on Alpha Thorne's mouth?"

I blocked out their voices, focusing instead on the steady, if weak, beat of Emma's heart against my chest. Each thump felt like a small victory, a defiant statement that they had failed to break her.

We reached the grand staircase that led to the upper floors. Rather than take the elevator where we'd be confined with curious onlookers, I began to climb, Emma secure in my arms. Her dark hair tumbled over my arm, one strand clinging to my wrist like a silken tether.

"Make way for His Majesty," one of the guards announced, though it was hardly necessary. The crowd parted before us like water before the prow of a ship.

I caught fragments of reactions as we passed:

A Lycan woman's hand flying to her mouth in shock.

A werewolf's eyes narrowing in concerned recognition of the Blood Moon Pack's Gamma.

An elderly minister shaking his head in disbelief at the sight of his colleagues in restraints.

By the time we reached my suite on the top floor, my arms ached not from Emma's weight but from the tension of carrying her with such careful precision. Elijah moved ahead of me to open the door, then rushed to turn down the bedcovers.

I laid her on my bed with the gentleness one might use for handling spun glass. Her skin was pale beneath the smears of blood, her breathing shallow but steady. Without the restraints forcing her head to one side, I could now see the full extent of the damage to her neck. Multiple bite marks marred her skin where Benjamin had tried again and again to force his claim, each attempt having failed to take hold.

I sat beside her, taking her limp hand between both of mine. "She needs to rest," I said softly. "Being near me might help her heal faster."

Elijah stood on the other side of the bed, his face a mask of barely contained violence. Blood—his sister's blood—stained his shirt and hands.

"You should clean up," I told him, nodding toward the en-suite bathroom. "There's no point in both of us sitting here covered in her blood when she wakes up."

He looked like he might argue, his protective instincts clearly warring with logic.

"I've got her," I promised, meeting his gaze directly. "Then we can swap. She doesn't need us both to be sitting here covered in blood like this when she wakes."

Something in my expression must have convinced him, because after a long moment, he nodded and straightened his shoulders. "You'll shout if anything changes? If she wakes up?"

"Of course."

"Where...?" He gestured vaguely, looking around the suite.

I pointed toward the wardrobe across the room. "Second drawer has jeans that might fit you. Shirts are hanging on the left."