CHAPTER 131: THE FALL OF THE PRINCESS

Aiden POV

The knock on the door had echoed like a gunshot.

I didn’t expect it. I didn’t even want to believe it was her. After everything, I thought maybe she’d just vanish. That she’d realize her sins, crawl back into whatever hole she came from, and disappear. But when the door creaked open and I saw her—no, what was left of her—my breath caught in my throat.

She looked like she’d crawled out of the grave.

Her clothes were tattered beyond recognition, soaked through with grime and blood and some foul stench I couldn’t place. Her hair, once silky and proud, hung in filthy knots over her pale face. And her eyes... they were glassy, distant, flickering like a candle about to go out. Then I saw it—her leg. Torn open, angry and raw. A bite mark. Deep. Infected.

And then she collapsed.

"Alexia!" I lunged forward, catching her before her head hit the floor. Her body sagged into mine like a rag doll, too light, too weak.

"William!" My voice exploded through the house. "William, call the damn doctor now!"

I didn’t care if it was three in the morning. I didn’t care if the whole damn neighborhood heard me. I pressed her to my chest, her cheek resting against my shoulder. She was burning up. Shaking.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Her pulse was there, thready but present. But she was slipping—drifting—and I couldn’t let that happen. Not yet. Not like this.

"Stay with me," I growled, more to myself than to her. "You don’t get to drop dead on my doorstep, not after everything."

I lifted her into my arms, the stench almost gagging me, but I didn’t care. I stormed through the hallway toward the nearest couch, shouting again, "William!"

"I’m here, sir!" he rushed in, his robe half-tied and eyes wide.

"She’s bleeding. A bite—probably a dog. She’s burning up. I think she’s got a fever. Call the doctor. Tell them it’s an emergency. Now."

"Yes, sir!" He disappeared before I could blink.

I laid her down gently, my hands instinctively brushing the hair from her face, trying to assess the damage. Her cheeks were sunken, her lips dry and cracked. There were scratches down her arms, bruises on her collarbone. Her leg was the worst of it—angry, swollen, the skin inflamed and oozing around the puncture.

"You’re a fucking disaster," I whispered, grabbing the emergency kit from under the coffee table.

I should’ve left her there.

I should’ve let her wander the city and rot.

But then why was I shaking?

Why was my throat tightening, my heart pounding like a war drum in my chest?

Because somewhere between hating her and needing her to suffer, I’d forgotten that I still cared. And I hated myself for it.

I peeled her ripped pant leg up carefully, cursing under my breath when she whimpered. "You’re not off the hook," I muttered, voice trembling. "You’re going to live, you hear me? So I can make you suffer the way you made me suffer."

My hands moved on autopilot—rinsing the wound with antiseptic, wrapping a cloth tightly around it to slow the bleeding. Her body flinched with every touch, but she didn’t wake. Didn’t even stir beyond the occasional moan of discomfort.

"Goddamn it, Alexia," I hissed. "What the hell happened to you?"

I couldn’t stop the flashbacks. Her walking toward me on the plane. Her sitting beside me, pale and trembling, trying to be brave. And me—cold and furious—leaving her behind like she was nothing. Watching her face disappear behind the car window and feeling a grim satisfaction at the time.

But now?

Now all I felt was rage. Not just at her. At myself. For letting her get to me. For feeling anything at all.

There was a knock at the door—this time urgent, purposeful. I heard William rush to open it and moments later, the doctor was at my side, breathless and already reaching for gloves.

"I came as fast as I could. What happened?"

"She showed up like this. Collapse. Dog bite. Probably been wandering all day. Fever, sweating, nonresponsive."

The doctor nodded, snapping on the gloves. "Let me see the leg."

I backed off, pacing the living room like a caged beast, my hands clenched so tightly they trembled. I watched from the corner of my eye as he examined her, his brows furrowing deeper by the second.

"She’s got a severe infection," he said finally. "And based on the swelling and the depth of the bite... it looks like she may have contracted rabies."

My heart stopped.

"Rabies?"

He nodded grimly. "I’ll need to administer the vaccine series immediately, but time is crucial. The incubation period varies, but judging by the fever and how disoriented she is... this has been festering for hours. If it spreads—"

"Do what you have to," I snapped. "Save her."

I hated myself for saying it. For meaning it.

Because somewhere between vengeance and truth, I’d fallen for her. Hard. And I didn’t know how to pull myself back out.

The doctor worked fast—administering shots, stabilizing her leg, starting an IV drip with fluids and antibiotics. I stood by uselessly, watching her pale face twitch in pain, her body occasionally shivering under the blankets I’d thrown over her.

Once she was settled, the doctor stood, wiping his hands. "She’ll need rest. Lots of it. And someone to monitor her around the clock. The worst of the symptoms may pass with the medication, but she’s going to be weak for days, possibly weeks."

I nodded, jaw clenched. "She’s not going anywhere."

"Good." The doctor gathered his things. "Call me if anything changes. Especially if she starts showing signs of hallucinations, seizures, or breathing difficulties. Understand?"

I gave him a curt nod. He glanced back at Alexia, a flicker of pity in his eyes, then disappeared out the door with William escorting him.

And just like that, we were alone again.

I sat beside her, elbows on my knees, head in my hands.

What the hell was I supposed to do with her now?

I didn’t trust her. I didn’t forgive her. I didn’t even understand her. But seeing her like this—broken, fragile, dying—it shredded something inside me I hadn’t realized was still intact.

"You were supposed to be a monster," I whispered, my voice raw. "Not... this."

I looked at her face, softened by unconsciousness, stripped of all its defenses.

She looked innocent.

But I knew better.

I had to remind myself: this was the woman who destroyed my past life. Who tore my world apart. Who ruined my sister’s life and left me broken in chains.

Still... some twisted part of me wanted to keep her safe.

Not because she deserved it.

But because I needed her to live.

So I could finally make her pay.

********

The clock ticked too loud in the silence.

The doctor was gone. William had retreated, though I’d seen the way he lingered—watching me, worried. I didn’t have the patience to explain, and honestly? I didn’t know what the hell I’d even say. That I left my wife at the airport to rot and now she was lying unconscious on my couch with a possibly fatal infection?

Yeah. That would go over well.

I sat there, watching her chest rise and fall—too slow, too shallow. Her breathing rasped like it hurt, every inhale a struggle. Her skin had turned waxy, cold in some places, burning in others. The wound on her leg had stopped bleeding, but the skin around it was purple and swollen, angry. She was too still. Too quiet.

I leaned back in the chair beside her, trying not to feel.

But every time I looked at her face, I remembered.

The way she used to smile at me before everything came crashing down. The fire in her eyes when she challenged me. The softness in her voice when she whispered my name. The night we’d made love... when she looked at me like I was more than just a pawn or a name in her revenge plot.

"Damn you," I whispered, fingers raking through my hair. "Damn you for making me care."

I’d wrapped her in clean blankets after the doctor left. Stripped off her shredded clothes and found something soft for her to wear. The nurse in me—the survivor—took over, while the man in me tried to detach.

But it was impossible to be detached when the woman you hated was dying in your living room.

I hated that my hands were shaking. That I kept checking her pulse every ten minutes like it would vanish if I didn’t.

"Why couldn’t you just make it easy?" I asked the ceiling like it had answers. "Why couldn’t you stay the villain?"

I wanted her to live. God, I needed her to live.

But not for love. Not for anything stupid like that.

No. She had to survive so I could make her pay. So I could remind her of every scar she left on me—every scream, every tear, every haunting memory. That was the deal. That was the path.

And yet...

I reached out, brushing her hair off her damp forehead, my hand lingering longer than it should have. Her skin was burning. She moaned softly in her sleep, turning her head ever so slightly toward my touch.

My chest ached.

"You should’ve just stayed away," I muttered, voice low, raw. "After the plane... after I left you... you should’ve known not to come back."

But she had.

Despite everything, she’d come back. Broken. Bleeding. Barely alive.

What the hell had she gone through just to return?

My gut twisted at the images—her wandering the streets, lost, scared. Dirty men harassing her. That damn dog. Alone, in pain, probably calling for help with no one around to give a damn.

I did this.

I left her.

I turned my back when I knew she was scared of landings. When I saw her flinch and close her eyes and almost reach for me. And I walked away anyway.

And now... now she might not wake up.

I slammed my fist against the edge of the couch, the sharp pain grounding me. I needed it. I needed something real to hold onto because everything else was spiraling.

"You’re not allowed to die," I growled. "Not after what you did to me. Not after what you’ve taken."

She didn’t respond. Not even a twitch this time.

Her breathing hitched.

I leaned forward instantly. "Alexia?" My hand found hers—cold and limp. "Alexia. Come on, don’t you fucking dare."

Still nothing.

"You want to make this right?" I whispered bitterly. "You want redemption? Then you live. You live long enough for me to destroy you like you destroyed me."

My throat burned. My eyes stung.

"I swear, if you die... I’ll find a way to drag your soul back just to scream at you."

A small sound escaped her lips then. Not words. Just breath. But it was something. And I gripped her hand tighter, clutching it like a lifeline.

It was past 3 AM.

I hadn’t slept. Couldn’t. Not while she looked like that. I’d been pacing, pacing until my legs ached, sitting beside her only to get back up again. Waiting for another sign. Another twitch. Another breath that didn’t sound like it came from a dying woman.

Her fever was still high. I wiped her down every thirty minutes with cool cloths. Checked the IV. Made sure the wound hadn’t gotten worse.

And every time I did, I told myself it wasn’t because I cared.

It was because I needed her conscious. I needed her to remember everything she did to me. Everything she stole. Every ounce of pain she shoved down my throat.

But I was lying.

And I knew it.

Because the idea of her never waking up scared the living hell out of me.