Chapter 3: Worth Every Penny If It Helps

Aria's POV

The afternoon training session is buzzing with the usual mix of showoffs and try-hards. I'm stretching near the edge of the field, pretending to focus on my routine, but my eyes keep drifting to that corner where I know he'll be.

There. Kael's in his usual spot, but something's off today. His movements are way more aggressive than usual, each punch thrown like he's trying to kill something. Makes my chest tight just watching.

Shit. He's barely eaten anything today.

I saw him at lunch. While I sat there picking at my food, still feeling like crap about yesterday's fight, he wolfed down that sorry excuse for a meal in about two minutes. No talking, no eye contact, just pure determination to avoid me at all costs.

Now he's paying for it.

His fists slam into the heavy bag with increasing fury. Sweat's pouring down his face even though it's not that hot out. Other students are starting to notice too, whispers getting louder around me.

"Look at the rogue boy losing his shit again."

"Probably having daddy issues flashbacks."

"Someone should tell him this isn't therapy."

I clench my jaw. These assholes have no clue what they're talking about.

Kael ditches the punching bag and moves to the sparring area. Starts throwing combo after combo at thin air. His form's still perfect, but I can see the exhaustion creeping in. His breathing's getting rough, and his usually sharp movements are starting to get sloppy.

Come on, you stubborn idiot. Take a damn break.

But he doesn't. If anything, he pushes harder, like he's trying to punish himself for something. Or maybe prove he doesn't need anyone's help. Especially not expensive supplements slipped into his soup by nosy pack princesses.

I'm debating whether to step in when it happens.

Kael throws one final, devastating combo, then just stops. He sways on his feet for a second, blinking like he can't focus, and I watch his face go from flushed to scary pale.

"Oh fuck," I breathe, already moving.

He takes one shaky step back, then another, and his knees just give out. Goes down hard.

The training ground explodes.

"Holy shit, he just dropped!"

"Is he dead?"

"Ha! Can't even handle basic training. Pathetic."

"Should someone call a medic?"

"Why? It's just the rogue boy. Who gives a shit?"

That last comment makes my blood boil, but I'm too busy shoving through the crowd of gawkers to waste time on these pieces of garbage.

"Move!" I snap at some freshmen with their phones out. "Back off!"

I drop to my knees next to Kael, heart hammering while I check his pulse. Fast but steady, still breathing. His skin's burning hot and there's this slight tremor running through his whole body.

"Aria?" someone calls out. "Didn't you guys have a massive fight yesterday?"

"Not now," I grit out, trying to figure out how to get him somewhere private. Last thing he needs is waking up to a bunch of assholes filming him.

I look around desperately, then make a call.

"Everyone back the hell off!" I shout, channeling every bit of authority I can despite lacking the bloodline. "Show's over!"

Some students actually listen. Others just pull out their phones. Fucking vultures.

I get Kael's arm over my shoulders and haul him up. Jesus, he's heavier than he looks. All that lean muscle isn't for show.

"Where you taking him?" someone yells.

"None of your business," I pant, half-carrying, half-dragging him toward the exit.

Getting him to my apartment feels like it takes forever. By the time I fumble with my keys and get inside, my shoulders are screaming and I'm soaked in sweat. I manage to dump him on my couch before collapsing on the coffee table, breathing hard.

Okay, Aria. Think. What now?

He's still out cold, still running that fever. I need to check if he's actually hurt, make sure there's nothing seriously wrong.

I grab a cool cloth from the kitchen and press it to his forehead. Then I carefully start unbuttoning his sweat-soaked shirt. Just checking for injuries, I tell myself. Nothing weird about this.

The fabric peels away from his skin.

I freeze.

"What the hell..."

His torso is covered in scars. Not just a few old training injuries. Dozens of them, crisscrossing his chest and wrapping around his sides. Some are thin white lines, others are thick and raised. A few still look pinkish, like they're not fully healed.

My hands shake as I help him turn slightly to see his back.

It's worse. Way worse.

Three massive claw marks rake across his shoulder blades, so deep they must have taken months to heal. Smaller scars dot his ribs and arms like some twisted constellation.

"Oh my god," I whisper, throat closing up. "Kael, what did they do to you?"

No wonder he's so suspicious of kindness. No wonder he thinks everyone has hidden motives. How much pain has this guy endured? How many times has he been hurt by people who should have protected him?

If he didn't have that rogue king bloodline, these injuries would have killed him years ago. Only someone with that kind of raw power and healing ability could survive this level of damage.

I'm reaching for my medical kit when he stirs.

"Shit," he mutters, trying to sit up. His eyes snap open and dart around the room. "Where am I?"

"My place," I say softly, trying not to startle him. "You passed out during training. I brought you here."

He looks down at his bare chest, sees my medical supplies laid out, and his face goes hard.

"I don't need your help."

He tries to stand but his legs give out immediately. I catch his arm before he hits the floor.

"Kael, please. You're hurt and exhausted. Just let me..."

"I said no." He pulls away and staggers toward the door. "I'm leaving."

"Like hell you are!" I grab the medical kit and follow. "You can barely stand!"

"I'll be fine."

"You just collapsed from not eating, you stubborn ass!"

He makes it maybe three steps before pain shoots through him and he has to brace against the wall, breathing hard.

"See? You're not fine!" I wave the antiseptic at him. "Those cuts on your back could get infected!"

"They're old scars. Don't need treatment."

"Some of them are still healing! God, Kael, how can you be so careless with yourself?"

He turns to glare at me, but there's exhaustion behind the anger now. "Because it's my body, not yours."

"And it's my apartment, my medical supplies, and my choice to help whether you like it or not!"

We stare each other down for a long moment. Finally, his shoulders slump and he leans heavier against the wall.

"Fine," he says quietly. "Do whatever."

Victory doesn't taste as sweet as I expected.

I guide him back to the couch. This time he doesn't fight when I help him lie down. His muscles are tense like he's waiting for me to hurt him, but he doesn't try to bolt again.

"This might sting," I warn, dabbing antiseptic on a cloth.

He doesn't respond, just closes his eyes and turns his head away. I start with the smaller, newer cuts on his ribs, working as gently as I can. Every time he flinches, I pause and murmur a soft sorry.

"This healing salve," I say after a while, "it's a family recipe. Been passed down for generations."

"Expensive, I bet," he says without opening his eyes.

"Worth every penny if it helps."

I work in silence after that, covering each scar with the pale green salve. Some are so deep I can barely look at them, but I force myself to be thorough. Whoever did this wanted him to suffer. Wanted him to remember.

As I work, Kael's breathing gradually evens out. The tension leaves his shoulders bit by bit, until he's completely relaxed under my hands.

"Better?" I ask when I'm done.

He opens his eyes and looks at me for a long moment. Something different in his expression now. Less hostility. More confusion.

"Yeah," he admits quietly. "It is."

I pack up the supplies while he slowly sits up and reaches for his shirt. We don't talk, but the silence feels different now. Less angry. More understanding.

He gets dressed without looking at me, then heads for the door. But he stops with his hand on the handle and glances back.

For a second, I think he's going to say something. Maybe explain the scars, or thank me, or just acknowledge what happened here.

Instead, he just nods once and walks out.

I sink onto the couch where he was lying and stare at the closed door. The scent of healing salve still hangs in the air, mixed with something else. Something that smells like trust.

Maybe tomorrow he'll let me help him again.