Chapter Forty-Seven: The Burning
He came to bed drunk.
Ariyana heard him before she saw him—the unsteady footsteps in the corridor, the low murmur of his voice dismissing the servants, the heavy thud of his palm against the door frame. She sat up in bed, her heart pounding, her hand reaching for the dagger on the nightstand.
The door swung open.
Edwin stood in the threshold, his silhouette swaying slightly, the torchlight behind him casting his face in shadow. He had been drinking—not the careful, measured consumption of a prince performing for the court, but the desperate, solitary drinking of a man trying to drown something.
"Your Highness." Ariyana's voice was cold. "You are drunk."
"Observant as always." He stepped into the chamber, his boots scuffing against the stone floor. His shirt was unlaced, his hair disheveled, his eyes glassy and unfocused. "My wife. The woman who hates me."
"I do not hate you."
"You should." He walked toward the bed, his movements loose, uncoordinated. "I would hate me, if I were you."
Ariyana's hand closed around the dagger. "Go to sleep, Edwin. You are not yourself."
"I am exactly myself." He sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping beneath his weight. "The man who married a woman who will not touch him. The prince who cannot produce an heir. The husband who sleeps beside his wife every night and dreams of—" He stopped, his jaw tightening.
"Dreams of what?"
He looked at her—his glacial eyes dark, hungry, desperate.
"Dreams of you."
---
The Fever
She had not noticed it until now.
The heat radiating from his body—too warm, even for a man who had been drinking. The flush on his cheeks, the sweat on his brow, the way his hands trembled as he reached for her.
"You are ill," she said, pulling back. "You have a fever."
"I am fine."
"You are burning."
"I am on fire." He leaned closer, his breath hot against her cheek. "For you. Always for you."
"Edwin—"
"Do you know what it is like?" His voice was low, ragged. "To lie beside you night after night, to feel the warmth of your body, to breathe the scent of your hair, and to know—to know—that you would rather die than let me touch you?"
Ariyana's throat tightened. "That is not—"
"It is true." He caught her wrist, his grip loose but insistent. "You flinch when I come close. You turn away when I speak. You look at me as if I am a stranger—or worse, an enemy."
"Edwin, you are not well. You need to rest—"
"I need you." His voice cracked. "I need my wife. I need—"
He kissed her.
It was clumsy, desperate, wrong. His lips were too hot, his hands too rough, his weight pressing her back against the pillows before she could think.
She pushed against his chest. "Stop—"
"Please." His voice was a broken whisper. "Please, Ariyana. I am burning."
---
The Warmth
She was burning too.
Not with fever—with something else. Something she had been fighting for months, years, a lifetime. The heat of his body against hers, the weight of his hand on her hip, the desperate, hungry sound he made when she did not push him away.
She should stop him. Should push him off, draw her dagger, remind him of the boundaries she had worked so hard to build.
But she was tired.
Tired of fighting. Tired of walls. Tired of being cold.
And his hands—his beautiful, terrible hands—were so warm.
"Just warmth," she whispered. "Nothing else."
He did not answer.
His lips found her throat. His hands found the laces of her shift. The fabric parted, the cool air hitting her skin, and she shivered—not from cold.
"Edwin—"
"I cannot stop." His voice was thick, drugged with fever and desire. "I have tried. I have tried for so long. But I cannot—"
He pulled back, his eyes wild, his chest heaving.
"Tell me to stop." His voice cracked. "Tell me you do not want this. Tell me you want me to leave, and I will go. I swear it."
Ariyana looked at him—at the man who had broken her heart, who was now asking her to save him from himself.
"The court expects heirs," she said quietly. "I have to let you."
"That is not an answer."
"It is the only answer I have."
---
The Pain
He was gentle at first.
Tentative. Careful. His hands shook as they explored her body, his lips tracing a path from her throat to her shoulder to the hollow of her collarbone. He whispered her name like a prayer—Ariyana, Ariyana, Ariyana—and she closed her eyes and tried not to feel.
But feeling was unavoidable.
The weight of him. The heat of him. The way his body fit against hers as if it had been made for her.
And the pain came.
She had expected discomfort. Had been told, in vague, euphemistic whispers, that the first time might be unpleasant. But this—this was not unpleasant. This was agony.
She bit her lip, hard enough to draw blood. Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes, sliding down her temples and into her hair. She did not make a sound.
Edwin did not notice.
He was lost in his own fever, his own burning, his own desperate need. His movements were clumsy, uncoordinated, driven by instinct rather than awareness. He held her too tightly.
Ariyana stared at the canopy above and endured.
This was her duty.
This was what wives did.
This was the price of survival.
She did not fight. Did not cry out. Did not ask him to stop.
She simply... endured.
And when it was over—when he collapsed beside her, his breathing ragged—she lay in the darkness and wept.
Silently.
So he would not hear.
---
The Collapse
She did not remember falling asleep.
One moment, she was lying in the darkness, her body aching, her tears soaking the pillow. The next, the world was spinning, the room was too hot, and her skin was on fire.
Not desire.
Fever.
Her own fever, rising to meet his.
She tried to sit up. Could not. Her limbs were heavy, unresponsive, her head pounding, her throat raw. She opened her mouth to call for Lira, for help, for anyone—
No sound came.
The darkness swallowed her.
---
The Morning
Edwin woke to sunlight and silence.
His head pounded. His mouth was dry. His body felt heavy, sluggish, as if he had been drugged. He blinked, trying to remember the night before—the wine, the fever, the desperate, burning need.
Then he saw her.
Ariyana lay beside him, her face pale, her lips blue, her breathing shallow and uneven. The shift she had been wearing was torn, hanging off her shoulder, and the sheet beneath her was stained with blood.
His blood? Her blood?
He could not tell.
"Ariyana." He touched her shoulder. She did not move. "Ariyana, wake up."
No response.
He shook her gently. Her head lolled to the side, her eyes closed, her face slack.
"Ariyana!"
---
The Physician
The old man came running, his bag in his hand, his face pale with fear.
He took one look at Ariyana—at the blood, the torn shift, the fever flush on her cheeks—and his expression hardened.
"You need to leave, Your Highness."
Edwin stood frozen by the window. "I am not leaving."
"You need to leave." The physician's voice was firm. "Your wife needs medical attention. You are—" He stopped, his jaw tightening. "You are not helping."
Edwin looked at Ariyana—at the woman he had married, the woman he had hurt, the woman who was lying unconscious in a bed stained with her blood.
"What did I do?" His voice cracked. "What did I do to her?"
The physician did not answer.
He simply gestured to the door.
Edwin walked out of the chamber, his legs trembling, his heart shattered.
---
The Vigil
He did not leave the corridor.
The guards stood at attention, their faces carefully blank. The servants hurried past with basins of water and stacks of clean linens. The physician came and went, his expression grim.
Edwin did not speak.
He simply stood against the stone wall, his arms crossed, his eyes fixed on the door to his wife's chamber.
Lira emerged hours later, her face pale, her eyes red from crying.
"Your Highness."
"How is she?"
Lira hesitated.
"The physician says she will recover. The fever is breaking. The—" She swallowed. "The wounds are not serious."
"Wounds?"
Lira's face crumpled. "You hurt her, Your Highness. You did not mean to—you were not yourself—but you hurt her."
Edwin's hands curled into fists.
"She has been through so much," Lira continued, her voice trembling. "The drug. The judgment. The loss of her title. And now—"
"I know."
"Do you?" Lira looked at him—really looked at him—and something in her expression hardened. "She trusted you. She was beginning to trust you. And you—"
"I know." His voice was raw. "I know what I did."
Lira nodded slowly.
"She is awake now. She is asking for you."
---
The Chamber
Ariyana lay in the bed, propped against a mountain of pillows, her face still pale but her eyes open.
She looked at him as he entered—her olive-green gaze flat, empty, devoid of the fire that had once burned there.
"Your Highness."
"Ariyana—"
"Do not." Her voice was weak but steady. "Do not apologize. Do not explain. Do not pretend you did not know what you were doing."
Edwin stopped a few feet from the bed.
"You were drunk," she continued. "You had a fever. You were not yourself. I understand."
"Ariyana—"
"I understand that you did not mean to hurt me. That you did not realize. That you were lost in your own burning." Her voice cracked. "But it hurt, Edwin. It hurt so much."
His face went white. "Why did you not tell me? Why did you not push me away? Why did you not—"
"Because you would not have stopped." Her eyes filled with tears. "You were not listening. You were not seeing. You were not—" She pressed her hand against her chest. "You were not you."
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