To heal a Rogue

BONNIE

His hand stayed around mine, warm and steady, and I found myself staring at where our fingers met instead of looking at him.

Looking at him had become its own problem.

Not because he was incredibly handsome, though that was difficult enough to ignore. It was because my thoughts kept slipping whenever our eyes met. I’d know exactly what I wanted to say, then I’d look at him for a second too long and everything unraveled before I could get the words out.

I hated that.

He’d never tried to hide the bond from me or been ruthless.

Not when I’d insulted him.

Not when I’d begged him to sever whatever thread fate had knotted between us.

And not now.

He stood there talking about visions, fate, and another healer as though none of it required convincing. He wasn’t trying to sway me with impossible promises or carefully chosen words. He was only telling me what he believed.

He’d been the same from the beginning.

Open about wanting to protect me.

Open about clearing my name.

Open about standing in front of an entire court and calling me his mate while I still had chains around my wrists.

Nothing about him fit.

Life had taught me what powerful men looked like. They took what they wanted. They called possession affection. If they offered kindness, it came with a debt attached, and you were expected to thank them for giving less cruelty than someone else might have.

Lysander kept asking.

Kept explaining.

Kept waiting for me to decide instead of deciding for me.

It made no sense.

He felt like something that had slipped into the world by accident, stitched into the wrong story.

And somehow my heart had chosen that impossible mistake to fixate on.

"I’ll think about it," I said.

The words came out quieter than I’d meant them to.

I eased my hand from his, carefully enough that it didn’t feel like rejection, only a reminder that there had to still be space between us.

There had to be.

"I’m just... very tired."

His thumb brushed lightly over mine before he let go.

"I can wait."

The words settled somewhere under my ribs.

There wasn’t any frustration in them.

No disappointment.

No hidden demand dressed up as patience.

Just quiet certainty.

I can wait.

I blinked down at my lap.

People didn’t wait.

They wanted answers before you’d even found the right questions. They lost patience. They told you your fear was inconvenient. They expected gratitude because they hadn’t been quite as cruel as the last person.

Waiting meant believing the answer might change one day.

Waiting meant believing you were worth the time.

I wasn’t sure anyone ever had.

Before he could see any of that on my face, I turned toward the bed.

"Are you fine with me sleeping in this bed?" He asked.

"I don’t care," I muttered.

The blanket had already been pulled almost to my chin, but I fussed with it anyway, smoothing wrinkles that weren’t there because my hands needed something to do.

The mattress dipped.

His scent reached me before his voice.

Like fresh honey and maybe it was his clothes. There was cedar and the scent of clean linen. It was a combination that was simply... him.

I’d started recognizing it without meaning to.

"Are you sure?"

His voice came from just beside my ear.

Heat climbed my neck so quickly it almost hurt.

Goosebumps chased across my arms.

Traitors.

Every last one of them.

"I’ll take the chair," I said, throwing the blanket aside before my body embarrassed me any further.

I barely got halfway upright.

His fingers caught my wrist.

Gentle.

Never forcing.

Just enough that my balance disappeared.

A tiny, thoroughly undignified squeak escaped me as I tipped sideways onto the mattress.

He moved with me on instinct, catching himself before any of his weight settled against me.

One hand braced beside my head.

The other landed near my shoulder.

He’d left enough space between us that I could still have rolled away.

Instead, I looked up.

A terrible decision.

His eyes were bright with amusement.

Not mockery.

Something softer.

"You know," he murmured, one corner of his mouth lifting, "I rather like you this way."

"What way?"

"Feisty."

His smile deepened.

"Like a little spitfire."

I rolled my eyes.

"You’re doing an awful job of convincing me to like you."

"That wasn’t the objective."

"No?"

"No."

He considered me for a moment, thoughtful enough that I almost believed he was about to say something serious.

"That’s fortunate."

I frowned.

"Why?"

"Because you’re accomplishing the exact opposite."

My stomach lurched.

I ignored it with every ounce of dignity I had left.

"But," he said, and the teasing in his expression eased into something quieter, "I am still a gentleman."

I let out a disbelieving laugh.

"You?"

"Me."

"What sort of gentleman throws a woman back onto a bed?"

"The considerate sort."

"I didn’t realize there were different kinds."

"There are."

He looked far too pleased with himself.

"This particular kind refuses to let an exhausted woman spend the night folded into a wooden chair while he stretches out across an entire bed."

"A sensible man would."

"A sensible man," he replied, "would know he’s already won this argument."

I lifted a brow.

"You think you’re winning?"

"I know I am."

"You are unbelievably arrogant."

"I’ve heard that."

"I imagine often."

"Usually from people who end up admitting I was right."

I stared at him.

He only looked back, patient as ever, like he had all the time in the world.

The silence stretched between us, and to my horror, I felt the edge of a smile tugging at my mouth.

I smothered it before it could grow.

"I’ll take the chair," he decided.

"I never agreed to that." I retorted.

"You don’t have to."

"I absolutely do." I maintained.

"I listened to your objections."

"You ignored them."

"I considered them."

"You dismissed them."

"I believe it can be argued that I reached a different conclusion."

I groaned, letting my head fall back onto the pillow.

"You’re impossible."

"So I’ve been told."

Before I could think of another argument, he leaned down.

His lips brushed my forehead.

The kiss barely lasted an instant. Warm enough to leave its trace against my skin, light enough that I almost questioned whether it had happened at all. By the time I looked at him, he’d already drawn back.

That hadn’t been fair.

There had been no heat behind it, none of the hunger I’d been bracing myself against ever since the bond revealed itself. No claim. No silent demand that I return the gesture.

It had felt more like someone checking that I was real.

Like a promise whispered without words.

The warmth he’d left behind lingered against my skin, impossibly vivid, and I became acutely aware of the pillow beneath my head, the soft brush of the blanket against my chin, the frantic beat of my own heart echoing in my ears.

Looking at the ceiling suddenly seemed like the safest decision I’d made all day.

For some reason, that made him chuckle.

"Goodnight, Bonnie." His voice came quietly this time.

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.

There was too much tangled inside a single word.

Too much I didn’t understand well enough to name.

I heard him step away.

The floorboards gave a faint creak beneath his weight.

Another followed. He was headed towards the chair.

A moment later, old wood complained softly as he settled into it.

I turned my head before I could stop myself.

He’d meant it.

There hadn’t been some hidden plan to wear me down until I gave in. No expectation that I’d eventually cave because saying no often enough became exhausting.

He’d only wanted me to sleep comfortably.

The realization sat heavily in my chest.

Annoyingly so.

Outside, the palace had fallen quiet.

Moonlight spilled across the floor in pale ribbons, stopping just short of the bed. Somewhere beyond the room, a pair of guards passed through the corridor, their boots dull against stone before the sound faded into the distance.

I pulled the blanket a little higher.

It still held the day’s warmth.

Delta’s words crept back anyway.

Lily of the Valley has changed.

He’s your mate.

Alpha Lysander will protect you.

Then this Fia and her vision.

The future everyone else seemed so certain of.

A throne I had never wanted.

I’d spent so long wishing for ordinary things that I hardly knew what to do with any of this.

A roof that could be mine.

Enough food that I didn’t have to wonder where the next meal would come from.

People I loved staying alive long enough for tomorrow to matter.

Those dreams had felt impossible once.

Now kingdoms, prophecies, and fate kept crashing into my life as though my opinion had never been part of the conversation.

I let out a slow breath and turned toward the window.

The moonlight reached the chair where Lysander sat.

His head rested against the back, arms folded loosely across his chest.

He looked asleep.

I sighed.

Even asleep, he looked uncomfortable. His legs were far too long for the chair, one boot braced awkwardly against the floor to keep from sliding.

Served him right.

Idiot.

The thought should have carried more satisfaction than it did.

Instead, I found myself watching the steady rise and fall of his breathing until I caught myself.

I looked away. What the heck!?

"...Goodnight," I whispered into the darkness.

A quiet huff answered me almost immediately. Just the faint sound of a laugh he clearly hadn’t managed to hold back.

My eyes narrowed. He’d been awake.

Of course he had.

I tugged the blanket over my nose with an exaggerated scowl, refusing to give him the satisfaction of another response.

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