Prince Loses His Protector

The evening meal tasted strange—bitter with an underlying sweetness that shouldn't belong in the standard military stew. I paused, wooden spoon halfway to my mouth, and examined the dark liquid. Seven years as Hudson's bodyguard had taught me to trust my instincts.

"Is something wrong with your rations, Mallory?" General Blaire Harris asked, her voice dripping with false concern. She stood too close, her presence uncomfortable in the crowded mess tent.

"No, General," I replied, setting down my bowl. "Just cautious."

Blaire's smile didn't reach her eyes. "Such vigilance. No wonder Hudson values you so highly."

I should have trusted that instinct. Within minutes, my vision blurred. The tent spun around me as faces melted into indistinct shapes. I tried to stand, to reach Hudson, but my legs wouldn't respond.

"Mallory?" Hudson's voice sounded distant, distorted. "What's happening?"

"She's just tired," Blaire said smoothly. "My men will help her rest."

I felt rough hands lifting me. The cool night air hit my face as they carried me from the camp. Through the fog enveloping my mind, I counted footsteps, tried to memorize directions. Left, right, uphill. The scent of pine gave way to something fouler—unwashed bodies, rotting meat.

"General Harris says this one might be worth something to the bandits," a gruff voice muttered. "Pretty enough, despite the scars."

"She won't be pretty for long," another replied with a cruel laugh. "These mountain bandits don't discriminate between male and female prisoners."

I fought against the sedative, summoning every ounce of training Dr. Crawford had instilled in me. Focus. Breathe. Fight.

They threw me into a filthy tent that stank of blood and despair. Through the thin fabric walls, I heard the bandits arguing over their new captive. My fingers found the hidden knife strapped to my thigh—my last defense.

The first bandit who tried to touch me learned what happens when you underestimate a woman who's taken arrows for her prince. My blade found his throat before he could scream.

But there were more. Many more. And I was drugged, disoriented, outnumbered.

I fought anyway.

Blood—mine and theirs—soaked into the dirt floor as I struggled to stay conscious. Each movement sent pain shooting through my body. A bandit's knife slashed across my ribs. Another's fist connected with my jaw. But I kept fighting, driven by one thought: Hudson would come for me. He had to.

Then I heard voices. Familiar ones.

"It's been hours," Hudson's voice carried through the thin tent wall. "She should have returned by now."

"Perhaps she's finally realized you don't need her anymore," Blaire replied, her tone light, teasing.

I froze, knife still embedded in a bandit's shoulder, as their voices grew clearer.

"You're right," Hudson said, his voice husky with desire. "It's refreshing to be with someone who understands political strategy rather than just blind devotion."

"And who makes you feel like a man rather than just a prince?" Blaire added.

Their laughter cut deeper than any blade. Through the haze of pain and drugs, I heard the unmistakable sounds of passion—the rustle of clothing, soft moans, Hudson's whispered words of praise.

"She was always so serious," Hudson murmured between kisses. "Like a loyal dog waiting for scraps of affection."

"Unlike me," Blaire purred. "I know exactly what you need."

The knife slipped from my hand as the full weight of their betrayal crushed me. Hudson hadn't searched for me. He didn't need me. All those years of taking arrows meant for him, bleeding for him, loving him—and he'd never once looked for me.

Something inside me hardened. The pain of betrayal burned away the last traces of the sedative.

I fought with renewed purpose—not for survival now, but for vengeance. Each bandit who fell to my blade was a step closer to freedom. To truth. To Hudson.

By dawn, I'd carved my way out of that hellish camp. Blood soaked my uniform—most of it not mine. An arrow protruded from my shoulder. A knife wound opened across my thigh. But I was alive.

Two days passed in a blur of pain and determination. I dragged myself back to camp, each step an agony of will over flesh. The guards barely recognized me as I stumbled through the gates.

"Where is he?" I demanded, voice raw from thirst and shouting.

In the command tent, I found them. Hudson and Blaire bent over maps and battle plans, her hand possessively on his arm. They looked up as I entered—Hudson's face a mask of shock, Blaire's eyes narrowing with annoyance at my survival.

"Mallory?" Hudson stepped forward, reaching for me.

I backed away, my body screaming in protest at the movement.

"What happened to you?" he asked, eyes wide with false concern.

Before I could answer, Blaire wrapped herself around him, her lips brushing his ear.

"Darling," she murmured, loud enough for me to hear, "we were discussing our future."

As Hudson's arms encircled her waist, I felt something inside me shatter beyond repair.