"Arrow to the shoulder missed the major vessels," he muttered, working with swift efficiency. "But this one..." His fingers probed the wound between Nero's ribs, and his patient convulsed with pain. "Close to the lung. Maybe punctured."
"Please,” Casteel begged. Not entirely sure what miracle he begged for. He didn't care about the prophesy. Didn't care aboutthe risk to himself. He just wanted this man, alive and whole, and back in his arms.
"We need to remove the arrows before we move him," Makim said, reaching for his satchel. "But I need more hands—hold him steady."
Lucan barked orders and two rebels broke away from the fighting, kneeling beside them. Casteel cradled Nero's head, trying to project strength through their weakening bond.
"This will cause him pain," Makim warned, gripping the shaft protruding from Nero's shoulder.
"Do it," Casteel commanded, his voice steadier than he felt.
Makim nodded to his impromptu assistants. "On my count. Three, two—"
He snapped the shaft, then swiftly extracted the arrowhead. Nero's body convulsed, a strangled cry tearing from his throat. Blood welled fresh from the wound, but Makim pressed a poultice against it with practiced efficiency.
"The second is more dangerous," the healer muttered, examining the arrow lodged between Nero's ribs. "If I remove it here, he could bleed out before I can treat him properly."
Another explosion rocked the palace, closer this time. Plaster dust rained down from the ceiling as the fighting intensified around them.
"We're out of time," Lucan growled. "Doran's reinforcements are coming."
Through their bond, Casteel felt Nero's consciousness flickering like a guttering candle. Each breath bubbled wetly in his chest, and his skin had taken on an alarming pallor beneath its usual tan.
"You did this," Casteel screamed at Lucan. "You were there. You saw us." He'd been at the evening ceremony.
Lucan met his gaze but didn't reply and Makim snapped at both of them. "Not the time. I'll stabilize the shaft for transport. But we must move quickly."
The healer worked with swift efficiency, binding the remaining arrow shaft to prevent movement while he packed the shoulder wound with herbs that slowed the bleeding. When he finished, he looked up at Lucan.
"Carry him as level as possible. Any jostling could drive the arrow deeper."
Lucan gestured to his strongest men. "Make a litter from those curtain rods and the banner cloth."
As the rebels hastily constructed a makeshift stretcher, Casteel leaned close to Nero, pressing his lips to his mate's clammy forehead.
"Stay with me," he whispered fiercely. "I can't do this without you." Because right at that moment he didn't care if he died so long as Nero lived.
Nero's eyelids fluttered, his gaze unfocused but seeking Casteel's face. Through their bond came not words but emotions—determination, regret, and something deeper that made Casteel's heart clench painfully.
"Ready," Lucan announced as his men positioned the litter beside Nero's prone form.
With exquisite care, they transferred Nero onto the stretcher. Each slight movement sent fresh blood seeping through the makeshift bandages, and Nero's face contorted with pain despite his semiconscious state. Through their bond, Casteel felt every spike of agony as if it were his own.
"Move," Lucan commanded, and they lifted the litter with military precision.
The journey through the palace corridors was a nightmare of stealth and speed. Lucan's men had secured their route, but the sounds of battle echoed from every direction as Doran's forcesrallied. They descended the servant's stairs in careful stages, pausing at each landing while scouts checked for threats ahead.
Casteel walked beside the litter, one hand maintaining constant contact with Nero's arm. Through their bond, he felt his mate's life force ebbing and flowing like a tide, sometimes stronger, sometimes terrifyingly weak. Makim stayed close, monitoring Nero's breathing and checking the bandages for fresh bleeding.
"Almost there," Casteel whispered as they reached the kitchen level. The familiar smells of bread and herbs seemed foreign now, tainted by the metallic scent of blood and the acrid smoke drifting through the palace.
The kitchen was abandoned, pots still simmering on their hooks but no sign of the staff. Casteel stopped Lucan and led them to the pantry where he and Nero had hidden before, his hands shaking as he manipulated the hidden mechanism.
"Here," he said as the passage opened. "It's narrow, but it leads directly to the old temple ruins behind the palace."
"The temple's been abandoned for years," Lucan observed as they maneuvered the litter into the cramped space.
"Exactly why no one will look for us there," Casteel replied, taking his position beside Nero's head. "There's a chamber beneath the altar—dry, defensible, with fresh water from an old well." For the first time ever, he was thankful for having insatiable curiosity as a child while his ma worked long days.
