His blue eyes flickered with surprise, but it was quickly swallowed by suspicion.

"You wish to use your sorcery on me?" he rasped, his chin lifted in defiance despite the deathly pallor of his skin.

Katherine kept her hands raised, her pulse thudding in her ears.

"It's not sorcery," she said firmly. "It's science. Medicine."

She had to make him understand. She couldn't fight him; she had to outsmart him.

"I have some medical training," Katherine said. It wasn't entirely a lie. She had taken a wilderness first responder course before a charity expedition to Patagonia three years ago—a course that had covered wound cleaning, basic suturing, and emergency antibiotic use in backcountry situations. Far more than the CPR class most of her peers had breezed through at charity luncheons. "I have a medical kit right here."

She pointed with her chin toward the metal box in the corner.

"Medicine?" he repeated the word like it was a curse.

A fresh wave of pain hit him. He doubled over slightly, a groan escaping his clenched teeth. The sword wavered, dropping a fraction of an inch.

Katherine saw her opening.

"You don't have a choice," she said, her voice hard. "You can either trust me, or you can bleed to death on my sheets. Your sword can't kill blood loss."

He stared at her, his chest heaving. He was assessing her, weighing his options. She met his gaze head-on, refusing to show the terror that was making her stomach churn.

Finally, he gave a slight nod.

"Where is it?" he asked, the command still present in his weak voice.

"Over there." She pointed again. "I need to walk over there to get it."

He gestured with the sword, permitting her to move, but his eyes never left her.

Katherine walked slowly, every step deliberate. She could feel his gaze boring into her back like a laser. She reached the red metal box on the shelf and popped it open.

Inside, everything was neatly organized. Alcohol pads, gauze, medical tape, a suture kit, a bottle of ibuprofen, and an emergency blister pack of broad-spectrum antibiotics—leftovers from the dental surgery she'd had the previous spring. Katherine took a steadying breath. She grabbed the alcohol and a stack of gauze.

She turned back to him. "I need to clean the wound. It's going to hurt."

He let out a bitter laugh that turned into a cough. "This pain is nothing compared to a single lie at a royal banquet."

Katherine paused, thrown off by the bizarre statement. She didn't have time to decipher his delusions.

She approached the bed, the smell of blood overwhelming the antiseptic scent of the alcohol. Her stomach roiled, but she swallowed the bile down.

She reached out to unbutton his ruined coat.

Instantly, his body went rigid. The sword snapped back up, pressing against her collarbone.

"Do not touch me!" he snarled, his eyes wild.

Katherine jumped back, her hands flying up again. "I have to see the wound to fix it! The alcohol will ruin your coat anyway!"

She realized her mistake. In his twisted mind, she was probably violating some sort of noble honor code.

He hesitated, looking down at his blood-soaked shirt. It was a garment of obvious quality, now reduced to rags. A flash of pain crossed his face that had nothing to do with his injury.

With a grimace, he reached up with his free hand. His fingers fumbled with the buttons, shaking from the effort, before he simply ripped the fabric open, exposing his stomach.

The gash was ugly. It was deep, the edges ragged and inflamed. It looked like a blade had sliced him open.

Katherine took a deep breath. She soaked a gauze pad in alcohol.

"This is going to burn." she warned.

She pressed the pad to his skin.

His entire body jerked. The muscles in his abdomen contracted violently. A hiss of air escaped his teeth, but he didn't scream. He didn't even groan. He just sat there, his jaw locked, his eyes squeezed shut, enduring the agony in silence.

Katherine worked quickly, wiping away the blood and dirt. She was amazed by his tolerance. He had a will of iron.

As she cleaned the area near his ribs, her knuckles brushed against his skin. It was burning hot. He was running a terrible fever.

She finished wrapping the wound with gauze, securing it tightly. The bleeding slowed, but the infection was still there, simmering beneath the surface.

He leaned back against the headboard, his chest heaving. The sword slipped from his fingers, clattering onto the mattress. He was too weak to hold it anymore.

He was at her mercy.

The bedroom was quiet except for the sound of his labored breathing.

Katherine reached out and placed the back of her hand against his forehead. The heat was terrifying.

"You have a fever," she said. "The wound is infected."

He knocked her hand away, his eyes snapping open. They were glassy with fever but still fierce.

"I know my own body," he muttered.

In his time, an infection like this was a death sentence. She knew that, even if he didn't want to admit it.

She turned back to the medical kit. She picked up the blister pack of antibiotics and the bottle of water.

She popped out two capsules. They were half red, half white. She held them out to him on her palm.

"Take these," she said. "They'll kill the bacteria and bring down the fever."

He stared at the capsules in her hand like she was offering him a live snake.

"What is this?" he asked, his lip curling. "An alchemist's pill?"

"It's medicine," she explained, trying to keep her voice patient. "It's made of penicillin. It's a mold extract that kills bad things in your body." She was parroting what the wilderness course instructor had drilled into them, hoping it sounded authoritative enough to convince a man who would probably think paracetamol was witchcraft.

Her explanation was clearly the wrong approach.

"Mold?" he repeated, his voice dripping with disgust. "You wish to cure me with rot?"

He swatted her hand away. The capsules went flying, bouncing off the floorboards.

"I will not take your poison," he declared, his hand fumbling for the sword again.

Katherine's patience snapped. She was tired, scared, and her hand was covered in his blood.

"It's not poison!" she yelled. "It's going to save your life!"

She might as well have been talking to a brick wall. He was a product of his time, whatever time that was, and he wasn't going to be convinced by modern science.

"You are too eager for me to consume it," he said coldly. "That only proves it is suspect."

He would rather die than take a pill from a stranger. It was a twisted logic, but it was his logic.

Katherine took a deep breath, trying to calm down. She couldn't force it down his throat. She had to play his game.

She bent down and picked up the two capsules. She blew the dust off them. Then, she popped out a third one from the blister pack.

She placed one capsule in front of herself and pushed the other two toward him on the nightstand.

"You think it's poison, right?" she asked, looking him dead in the eye. "In your world, how do you test for poison?"

He paused, his fevered brain processing her words. A flicker of understanding crossed his face. Silver probes. Food tasters. It was the royal way.

"You first." he ordered, his voice leaving no room for argument.

Katherine almost hesitated. She had taken this same antibiotic before, after a root canal the previous year. She knew she was not allergic. The physical risk was minimal—but the psychological gamble was enormous. Then she thought of the tabloid headlines, of the blood already soaking into her priceless antique mattress, and of the fact that if this man died in her bed, no explanation in the world would save her. She grabbed the capsule, twisted the cap off the water bottle, and swallowed it dry. She held her mouth open to show him it was gone.

He watched her, his eyes wide with shock at her boldness.

Katherine capped the water and set it down. She spread her arms wide.

"Now we wait," she said. "We wait to see if I drop dead. But your fever? It isn't going to wait."

It was a gamble. She was forcing his hand. She was making him choose between his paranoia and his life.

He stared at her, searching her face for any sign of deceit. She stared right back, refusing to blink.

A violent shiver wracked his body. His teeth chattered. The fever was winning.

He couldn't wait.

With a trembling hand, he reached for the two capsules. He picked them up, holding them like they were made of glass. He looked at her one last time, memorizing her features, as if he wanted to remember the face of the woman who had either saved or killed him.

Then, he put them in his mouth and took a long drink of the water.

He swallowed.

He didn't take his eyes off her.

He sat there, propped against the headboard, his blue eyes boring into her, waiting for her to keel over. He was waiting for the convulsions, the foam at the mouth, the proof of betrayal.

Katherine sat in the chair across from him, her arms crossed. She felt fine. A little tired, a lot stressed, but completely fine.

Minutes ticked by. The only sound was the hum of the air purifier.

Katherine remained breathing, outwardly calm. The king watched, his gaze unblinking—but the tension slowly began to drain from his body. It was not the antibiotics. Those would take hours to do their work. It was sheer exhaustion, the catastrophic blood loss, and the last of his adrenaline finally wearing off. Whatever the reason, the fight went out of him.

His eyelids drooped. His head nodded forward.

Just before he lost consciousness, he moved.

It was a sudden, deliberate motion. He reached for his right hand. With a slow, trembling effort, he worked the ring off his thumb, his weakened fingers struggling with the weight of the gold. The motion cost him visibly—his breath caught, and fresh sweat broke out on his brow—but he did not stop until it came free.

It was a massive thing. Gold, with a ruby the size of a grape. It caught the lamplight, throwing blood-red shadows on the wall.

He let it drop. It tumbled onto the rug at her feet with a soft, heavy thud.

"Payment," he mumbled, his voice barely a whisper. "In advance. We will settle the rest when I wake. Do not touch my sword."

His head lolled to the side, and he was out.

The bedroom fell silent.

Katherine sat frozen for a long moment. Then, she leaned down and picked up the ring.

It was heavy. Heavier than she expected. The gold was cool against her fingers, and the ruby was a deep, vivid red. She had grown up around expensive things. She knew real gems when she saw them.

And this was real.

She turned it over. On the inside of the band, there was an engraving. A crest. Two eagles, facing opposite directions, their talons intertwined. Beneath them, a single word in ornate, flourished lettering: Ethelgard.

Her heart skipped a beat.

She knew that crest. Not the word—the word was new—but the eagles. She had seen that double-eagle motif before, in a catalog from Christie's, years ago. It had been associated with some minor European principality. She had skimmed past it then. Now, it was burning a hole in her palm.

She scrambled for her phone on the nightstand, her fingers shaking as she typed in the passcode. She opened the browser and typed in the words: "Ethelgard ruby ring two eagles."

The search results loaded instantly.

The first hit was from Christie's auction house. The headline read: "The Lost Monarch's Proof: The Coronation Ring of King Cain Finley of Ethelgard."

Katherine clicked the link. A high-resolution image filled her screen. It was the exact same ring. The article detailed the history of the piece, describing how it vanished after the kingdom fell, valued at over thirty million dollars.

Her phone nearly slipped from her sweaty grip.

She looked at the man sleeping in her bed. She looked at the ring in her hand.

This wasn't a cosplayer. This wasn't a lunatic. No one could fake this. No one could steal a thirty-million-dollar artifact and bring it to her bedroom.

A cold wave of realization washed over her. Calling the police was no longer an option. This man was dangerous, yes, a ticking time bomb in her home. But he was also a living, breathing treasure chest. The police would lock him in a psych ward, the ring would disappear into an evidence locker, and she would be left with nothing but bloodstained sheets and a traumatic story. No. She couldn't let that happen. She had to control this situation. She had to control him.

She stood up and walked over to the bed. She looked down at him, really looking for the first time. Without the snarling aggression, his face was striking. Sharp cheekbones, a strong jaw. He looked like a king.

She grabbed the cashmere throw from the foot of the bed and draped it over his chest, tucking it gently around his shoulders.

She wasn't a victim anymore. She was a gatekeeper.

She sat back down in the chair, placed the ring safely in her pocket, and began to type a new search into her phone.

"Cain Finley. Ethelgard Kingdom."