CHAPTER 171: GROUNDING

The warm light from the fluorescent chandelier fell on Ephyra’s body, illuminating the corner where she was standing. Pouring water from the glass jug into the glass cup, Ephyra placed the jug down and drank all the water in the cup.

She was dressed in a new nightdress because the one she wore earlier was stained with sweat, and she had to shower. Even after blow-drying her hair, some of the strands were still wet.

Placing the cup down with a clank, Ephyra didn’t move. She stood there staring at nothing as her memory refreshed, and the faces of her family came to her mind in sharp clarity, repeating themselves in cycles—the same as the time of her death—and she felt the onset of an upcoming headache.

She sighed tiredly and turned off the light, then walked out of the kitchen into the hallway that led to the living room. Just as she passed through the living room, she felt something tugging at her, so she paused and looked back but found nothing.

Rubbing her temple with her fingers, she breathed out and started walking again, but this time, the clear sound of a pained groan reached her ears. She stopped.

Aside from her, the only person in the suite was Lyle, whose room was across the living room—and the sound had come from his direction. Turning around, she stepped forward just as the loud crash of glass echoed through the suite, followed by the sound of something tearing.

Dread gripped her at the thought of something happening to Lyle—something that had made him let out that pained groan. Immediately, she dashed across the living room to the hallway and reached his room in seconds. Without wasting time, she pushed open the door and ran into the dark room.

"Lyle?"

Silence.

Ephyra’s heart went to her throat. "Lyle!" she yelled as she moved deeper into the room, focusing as she picked up the sound of ragged breathing. "Lyle? Lyle, are you okay?"

She looked for the light switch but stopped when a deep, gravelly "No," reached her ears. Slowly, she took her hand away and moved in the direction of the sound.

As she moved closer, the ragged breaths became clearer until she reached where she thought he was and extended her hand to feel around.

However, as soon as she extended her hand, a larger hand gripped her wrist and pulled her hard, making her let out a surprised sound as her body lurched forward and she fell into a warm, huge embrace.

Lyle’s arms tightened to an almost unbearable degree around her as he tucked his head into the hollow of her neck and breathed in like a starving man who had just seen salvation.

At first, Ephyra was surprised when she fell into his embrace. Then she was confused as his hands clamped around her body, but that quickly turned into concern and worry when he breathed in her scent between harsh, ragged breaths.

"Lyle?" she called out, her voice soft and placating, but it was as if he hadn’t heard her—he continued breathing her in like he could never get tired of it.

Yet, this only made Ephyra’s worry deepen. She called him again, "Lyle," but still no response.

Deciding to let him smell her scent until he calmed down, she stayed still. But when she felt an ache in her arm, he subconsciously moved to wrap her hand around his body so that she would have something to hold on to.

So she did just that. But just as her hand touched his broad back, something wet stained it. As she brought her fingers closer to her face, the metallic scent hit her.

The dread that had gripped her earlier came back in full force, coiling around her as she tentatively used her finger to confirm.

When the tip of her finger touched the blood on his back and grazed the deep gash it came from, she froze.

"Lyle...!" She pushed at his body, but he didn’t budge and ignored her panic, solely focused on breathing her in.

"Lyle," Ephyra said again, her voice trembling now, "you’re bleeding."

No response. Just a deep, ragged breath pressed into the crook of her neck.

Her hand hovered over his back, hesitant to press against the wound again. Her fingers shook. She wanted to pull away, but he held on with the strength of a man clinging to the edge of a cliff—and she was the ledge.

"Lyle, talk to me." She tried to twist in his arms to look at him, but his grip only tightened. "What happened to you?"

Still nothing. He was too far gone in whatever hell his mind was trapped in.

Ephyra turned her face toward his shoulder, eyes wide in the dark, and whispered, "Okay. I’m not going anywhere, but you need to let me help you. You’re hurt. Badly."

Her voice, low and soothing, finally reached him. Not fully, but enough that his arms slackened just a little. She used that moment to slide her hand along his arm, feeling the tremors beneath his skin. He was burning up, either from fever or sheer adrenaline.

She reached for her phone in her nightdress pocket, but it wasn’t there. Of course it wasn’t—she hadn’t expected to run into an emergency in the middle of the night. Gritting her teeth, she shifted slightly, trying to guide him toward the bed.

"Come on," she urged softly, "let’s lie down, okay? Just for a second. I’ll help you."

Somehow, he listened this time. Or maybe his body finally began to give out. He let her ease him back, his weight pressing heavily on her as they sank to the edge of the bed. In the dim glow from the hallway light behind them, she could finally make out more of him.

She turned him so that his back was facing her, his shirt was torn in the back, blood soaking through the fabric, dark and angry. The wound wasn’t just a scratch—it looked like he had been cut. Deep.

Ephyra’s heart pounded as she reached over to the nightstand and flicked on the bedside lamp. The sudden light made Lyle flinch, and he squeezed his eyes shut, groaning softly.

"Sorry, sorry," she murmured, all her attention on the wound in his back. She didn’t see the dark, root-like veins crawling up his neck to his face. "But I need to see."

She gently pulled the shirt aside and saw the damage. It was a gash—long, jagged, as though he’d been slashed with something sharp and rough. Panic surged through her, but she shoved it down. This was not the time to lose it.

"I need to clean this," she said, mostly to herself. "You need stitches. What the hell happened to you?"

He opened his mouth but barely got out a raspy, "Didn’t want you to see me like this."

Her breath caught. The words were broken and raw, but real. "Lyle, though I don’t understand what you mean, I don’t care about how you look right now. I care that you’re alive."

"I need to clean, stitch, and bandage this." She paused, then continued, "I’ve done it a lot, and I’m surprisingly good at it—but you have to let me." Ephyra didn’t realize she’d let something slip in her effort to convince him.

This time, he nodded. Just once. That was all she needed.

Ephyra rushed to the bathroom, grabbed the first-aid kit they had packed just in case, and returned to him, who now sat hunched over, holding his side, his skin still the same even from blood loss.

She opened the kit and pulled out antiseptic, gauze, and a pair of tweezers. Her hands moved quickly despite trembling. She sat beside him, placed a towel under his back.

Ephyra cleaned the wound carefully, wiping away blood, whispering soothing things as he stayed quiet during the whole process. She didn’t ask questions yet. Didn’t push for explanations. Not while he was this vulnerable.

After she dressed the wound and told him to turn around but when he didn’t, she frowned.

"Lyle? Lyle, what’s wrong?" she asked, but he didn’t reply.

He just sat there, facing away from her, his body motionless.

Her heart tightened.

Something felt... wrong.

No, everything felt wrong.

The wound. His silence. The weight in the air pressing down on them like a thundercloud waiting to burst.

She’d only seen him like this twice.

Once, when they first met.

Again, when he came to rescue her from his own men.

Both times, something had triggered it. Something had snapped inside him.

So what the hell happened this time?

"Lyle," she said again, her voice gentler now—like she was coaxing a wild animal out of hiding. "Look at me."

Still nothing.

Ephyra slowly reached out and placed her hand on his shoulder.

At her touch, his muscles eased—just barely—but it was enough to tell her he wasn’t lost. Not entirely.

That was all she needed.

She didn’t think. She moved. Instinct, emotion—whatever it was, it took over.

Ephyra slipped down to her knees in front of him and wrapped her arms around his torso, pulling him into a firm, desperate hug. She buried her face in his shoulder, speaking into the darkness between them.

"It’s okay," she whispered. "I’m sorry you’re in pain. I wish I could take it away—I wish I could do something better than this. But right now... this is all I have."

Her arms tightened around him.

"It’s alright... You’re not alone. I’m right here."

He breathed out, a shaky, hoarse sound against her ear. It was like the dam cracked just a little.

"You’re safe. I promise. Nothing’s going to happen to you. Not while I’m here."

She let her hand stroke the back of his head, carding through the damp strands of hair as she continued.

"And if you do die, I’m gonna haunt you so hard your next reincarnation will start apologizing in the womb."

That earned her a small exhale—like a cough that almost became a laugh.

Ephyra chuckled, brushing a kiss to his temple. "I know, I know. Lame joke. Uncle Marven used to say that kind of crap right before throwing up on my mom’s carpet. But still."

Silence followed again, thick and humming.

The only sound now was the uneven rhythm of their breathing.

She stayed there, not moving, just holding him—until she finally felt his arms around her again. Both of them. They slid slowly, like they were remembering how to move. One wrapped around her lower back, the other pressed gently to her waist.

Relief bloomed in her chest—but it only lasted a second.

Her palm, resting on his shoulder, brushed something odd. Harder than skin. Warmer.

She frowned, then slipped her fingers upward.

Her breath caught.

It felt like... veins.

But wrong somehow. Thick, pulsing, corded like roots crawling under his skin.

Slowly, carefully, she trailed her fingers up his neck. She didn’t stop even when she felt him shiver.

What is this?

Her touch was featherlight, but each inch made her pulse jump. The lines were alive, almost moving under her skin. They twisted and twined like vines growing around him from the inside.

She didn’t want to reach his face. But she had to.

Ephyra moved her hand, slowly, up the side of his jaw. And when her fingers traced the sharp line of his cheekbone and stopped just beneath his eyelid, her voice cracked.

"Lyle..."

And like her voice flipped a switch, his hand tightened around her waist. Not rough. But firm. Steady. Grounding.

She pressed her forehead to his, chest rising and falling in a ragged rhythm with his own. Her pulse thudded in her ears.

Then, with great care, she pulled back just enough to look at him.

Finally, finally... she saw him.

And she froze.

Lyle’s face was pale, ashen even, with those same black, root-like veins coiling up one side of his face. His eyes were open and looking right at her—but they didn’t glow or shine like they usually did. No warmth. No light. Just a deep, haunting gray, rimmed in a quiet storm of emotion he couldn’t voice.

Anyone else would have screamed.

Anyone else would have run.

But Ephyra stayed still.

And stared back.

She didn’t flinch. She didn’t cry. She didn’t speak.

Maybe it was his hands, still holding her with such care, like she was glass. Or maybe it was the raw emotion simmering in his eyes—grief, fear, fury, shame—so loud it choked her.

She lifted her hand again, gently cupping his cheek.

He didn’t move.

So she traced that same line down his face, fingers brushing along the marks without fear, stopping beneath his eye.

Her voice came soft, steady, and real.

"Lyle..."

"...Hm?"