Chapter 45
45 Chapter 45 Can You Blame
Them
Faye’s POV
The instant the door clicked shut behind us, I whirled
around to face him. The dining hall felt like a distant memory now, replaced by the oppressive quiet of this guest chamber.
“Why didn’t you warn them?” The words tore from my throat before I could stop them. My chest heaved as I struggled to control my breathing. “Those men who ate with us. You could have said something p>
Hardy moved with that infuriating calm of his, striding toward the window table as if we’d just finished discussing the weather. He shrugged off his dark cloak and draped it over a chair back with casual
indifference. The slight curve of his lips suggested he found my distress amusing.
That expression made my blood simmer.
I remained planted by the door, every muscle in my
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body coiled tight, watching as he reached for the crystal decanter and poured himself water. He took a leisurely sip, then angled his body toward me, that maddening half–smile still playing at his mouth.
He wasn’t concerned. Not even slightly.
The realization sent fury coursing through my veins.
I stalked across the room, closing the distance between us until only a few feet separated us. “It’s slow–acting poison,” I said through gritted teeth. “No immediate signs. But the effects will begin soon. Weakness. Compromised healing ability. You understand what that means p>
Of course he understood.
A werewolf without proper healing was as good as dead in a fight. And he’d known this before I’d even tasted that cursed food.
I shook my head, fighting to keep my voice steady. “Take off your shirt. I need to heal you before the toxin spreads deeper into your system p>
He didn’t budge.
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Instead, his dark eyes found mine, and that damned smirk widened. “You’ve evolved,” he said, his tone deliberately casual.
My heart stuttered. “What are you talking about p>
“You’re beginning to sound like a proper wife,” he continued, almost lazily. “All that commanding tone and sharp concern p>
Heat flooded my cheeks. I jerked backward as if he’d slapped me. God, was I actually nagging him?
The mortifying realization hit me like a physical blow. I immediately averted my gaze, humiliation burning in my throat. “I wasn’t trying to p>
He moved like liquid shadow.
One moment he was by the table, the next he stood directly in front of me. His fingers found my chin, tilting my face upward with gentle but unyielding
pressure.
“Never look away when I’m speaking to you,” he commanded quietly.
His voice sliced through every defense I’d built.
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I tried to draw air into my lungs, but his proximity scrambled my thoughts. Heat radiated from his body, making the space between us feel electric.
His fingers remained beneath my chin, holding me captive, forcing me to meet those intense eyes. They weren’t cold like before. They weren’t mocking either. Just… burning. I swallowed hard.
His gaze dropped to my mouth and lingered there a heartbeat too long. I recognized that look, knew exactly what it meant.
The distance between us seemed to shrink with each breath. My skin tingled, but I couldn’t force myself to
retreat.
I didn’t dare.
“Remove your shirt,” I whispered, the words barely audible.
I wasn’t entirely sure if I spoke for his benefit or my
own.
He didn’t respond immediately.
Instead, his eyes returned to my lips, and without
C
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warning, he leaned down and pressed his mouth to
mine. The kiss was brief, almost tentative, lasting only seconds. But the contact sent electricity shooting
through my entire body, stealing the breath from my lungs.
My eyes snapped open, and I froze, not from fear but from complete shock.
This wasn’t like the possessive kiss he’d forced on me in front of the crowd to stake his claim. This was different. Softer. Like he was asking a question instead of making a statement.
And it shattered something inside me.
My throat constricted as I stood there, too stunned to move or speak.
He pulled back just enough to study my face, the ghost of a smile touching his lips. He said nothing.
I swallowed roughly. My skin felt fevered. I must be red as a tomato right now.
This man who had once wrapped his fingers around my throat and nearly killed me was now standing
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inches away, completely relaxed, unarmed, and somehow controlling every molecule of air between
Was this the same Lord Hardy who had forced me into this political charade?
Was this still the battle–scarred warrior who had looked at me like I was nothing more than a tool when we first met?
I couldn’t reconcile the two versions of him.
After an eternity, he stepped back slightly, creating just enough space to breathe. Then he raised both arms, palms open, his posture completely relaxed.
“Would you do the honors?” he asked, his voice smooth as silk.
My breath hitched, but I remained silent.
Instead, I moved closer.
My fingers found the fastenings of his coat, working each clasp open with careful precision. The heavy fabric slipped from his shoulders easily, and I folded it neatly before placing it on the table’s edge. Then,
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without breaking the charged silence between us, I reached for the bottom of his tunic.
He watched me intently.
My hands hesitated for just a moment at the fabric’s hem before I gripped it and slowly pulled upward. His chest was revealed inch by torturous inch–the
defined planes of muscle, the warmth of his skin, the network of faded scars that mapped his violent past.
I’d seen him shirtless before, during that first healing session in the carriage, and again during various battles when survival left no room for modesty. But this moment felt entirely different, and I knew it the second my fingertips grazed his skin.
This wasn’t about urgency or necessity.
This was about choice. And care.
I pressed my palm flat against his chest, telling myself this was purely medical. Nothing personal. Just
healing, nothing more.
But his skin was warm beneath my touch. Solid. His heart beat steadily against my palm as if the poison ᴛʜɪs ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ɪs ᴜᴘᴅᴀᴛᴇ ʙʏ.net
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hadn’t affected him yet. But I could sense it—a subtle disruption in the energy flow beneath my hand, like a thread with a knot in it.
The toxin hadn’t reached full potency, but when it did, it would cripple his healing abilities completely.
My gaze traveled across the scars covering his chest. Some were jagged tears, others clean lines. Old
wounds that had refused to fade despite werewolf healing. Each mark told a story of survival against impossible odds.
“The poison targets healing specifically. No visible symptoms means they’re either planning to attack when we’re vulnerable, or they intend to dose us gradually to avoid detection by Physician Allen,” I said, working through the possibilities aloud.
“I killed my first bride,” Hardy said suddenly, his voice cutting through my analysis. “She was born and raised in this territory. His eyes found mine. “Can you honestly blame them for wanting revenge p>
Sara Lili
Sara Lili is a daring romance writer who turns icy landscapes into scenes of fiery passion. She loves crafting hot love stories while embracing the chill of Iceland’s breathtaking cold.