Fated To Not Just One, But Three - Chapter 594
Chapter 594: The Fight
Lennox’s POV
I couldn’t concentrate.
I wasn’t myself—if anything, I was going insane.
Olivia had just told me that Liam’s condition was getting worse, and I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to see him so badly, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t show my emotions or seem to care too much, because I was just a guard—and a guard wasn’t supposed to worry this much about Liam.
Where I stood, I watched Olivia talking to a woman about some upcoming project. She looked calm. Relaxed. Unbothered. It made me wonder if Liam was doing okay now… or if she was just very good at hiding her emotions.
Should I ask her how Liam is doing? I thought to myself.
There was no harm in it.
All I had to do was ask—simply and casually.
After she finished speaking with the woman, Olivia turned and began walking down the corridor.
I followed a few steps behind her, keeping the right distance. Not too close. Not too far. Just a guard doing his duty.
My heart was pounding so hard I was afraid she might hear it.
I told myself to stay quiet.
To let it go.
But the words slipped out anyway.
“How is Liam doing?” I asked, keeping my tone as neutral as I could. “Is he… any better?”
She didn’t stop walking.
For a few seconds, she didn’t answer at all.
Her silence felt heavier than any shout.
Then she spoke.
“Not really,” she said quietly.
Each word landed like a blow.
“He’s eating less,” she continued, her voice calm but tired. “He wakes up crying most nights. Sometimes he refuses to talk to anyone. Other times, he pretends he’s fine just so his brothers won’t worry.”
My chest tightened painfully.
She slowed her steps but still didn’t look at me.
“The healer says it’s not just physical,” she went on. “It’s grief. Losing his father has taken a toll on him in ways a child his age shouldn’t have to carry.”
Father.
The word pierced straight through me.
I clenched my fists behind my back, trying to control my emotions. I kept my gaze forward, kept my face blank, even as something inside me cracked. I had done this. My death. My disappearance. My decision. And now my son was paying for it.
Olivia stopped walking so suddenly that I almost ran into her.
She turned to face me, her eyes cold, unreadable.
“Spar with me.”
The words caught me off guard.
“What?” I asked before I could stop myself.
She was already moving, heading toward the training yard. “I said spar with me.”
I followed instinctively, my steps measured. “Luna,” I said carefully, “is this really a good idea?”
She didn’t answer.
The training yard was empty at this hour, the air cool, the ground packed firm beneath our boots. Weapon racks lined the edge. Without hesitation, Olivia walked straight to them and reached out.
She picked a spear.
My chest tightened.
I stepped forward slowly and took one as well. I rolled my shoulders, grounding myself, reminding myself who I was supposed to be.
A guard.
Not an Alpha.
Not Lennox.
She turned to face me, spear already raised, her stance sharp and aggressive. There was no warmth in her eyes. No hesitation.
Just anger.
“Defend yourself,” she said.
And then she came at me.
Fast.
Too fast.
I barely had time to lift my spear before she struck, the force of her blow rattling up my arms. I stepped back, blocking, redirecting, careful not to overpower her.
But she wasn’t holding back.
She attacked again, and again, each strike fueled by something raw and burning. Rage. Grief. Accusation.
It felt like she was trying to hurt me.
No—like she wanted to.
I dodged, parried, kept my movements tight and controlled, refusing to press an advantage. Every instinct screamed at me to disarm her, to end this before she hurt herself.
But I couldn’t.
Not like this.
“Come on,” she snapped, circling me. “Is that all you’ve got?”
I said nothing.
She lunged again, spear slicing through the air. I twisted aside, feeling the wind of it pass my shoulder.
“I heard you’re a good fighter,” she went on, her voice sharp, taunting. “That’s how you became my personal guard, isn’t it?”
Her strikes grew faster.
Angrier.
She wasn’t testing skill anymore.
She was attacking me.
I blocked another blow, the clash of metal ringing through the yard. My arms burned from holding back, from constantly redirecting instead of countering.
Then it happened.
She feinted left and struck right.
I was a fraction too slow.
Pain flared as the blade sliced across my upper arm.
“Damn—”
Blood welled instantly, dark against my sleeve.
She froze for half a second, surprise flickering across her face.
Something was wrong.
Very wrong.
She hadn’t meant to stop.
She wanted to keep going.
I straightened despite the sting, lowering my spear slightly. “Luna,” I said firmly, forcing calmness into my voice, “we should stop.”
Her jaw clenched.
“No,” she said flatly. “Not yet.”
She attacked again.
I barely blocked in time, pain shooting through my wounded arm. If this continued, I wouldn’t be able to keep controlling the fight.
If I were Lennox, I knew exactly what to do.
I would step in close.
I would trap her weapon.
I would pull her into my chest and comfort her, letting her rage burn itself out against me.
But I wasn’t allowed to do that.
I was just a guard.
“Luna,” I tried again, backing away, “you’re hurt. You’re not thinking clearly.”
Her eyes flashed.
“Don’t tell me what I’m feeling.”
She came at me harder, driving me back step by step. I caught her spear shaft with mine, locking them together, metal scraping, our faces suddenly too close.
Her breath was uneven.
Her eyes were blazing.
I lowered my voice. “This isn’t about training.”
She shoved me back violently. “Then fight.”
I tightened my grip, blood dripping down my arm, my control hanging by a thread.
If I lost myself now—if I fought her the way I could—everything would unravel.
So I did the only thing I could.
I dropped my spear.
It hit the ground with a dull clang.
The sudden stillness shocked her.
“What are you doing?” she demanded.
“I won’t fight you like this,” I said quietly. “Not when you are not yourself.”
Her chest rose and fell rapidly, anger warring with something else in her eyes.
I stood there unarmed, bleeding, exposed—waiting to see if she would strike again.
And praying she wouldn’t.
Her eyes went cold.
“Leave,” Olivia said flatly. “Leave before I chop your head off.”
There was no anger left in her voice this time.
I didn’t argue.
I inclined my head once, turned, and walked out of the training yard with my arm bleeding freely down my sleeve.
By the time I reached my room, my arm was throbbing badly.
I shut the door behind me and leaned against it for a moment, breathing hard. My control was hanging by a thread. I stripped off the bloodied uniform, hissing as fabric tugged against the cut, then tossed it aside and sat on the edge of the bed.
“What the hell is wrong with her…” I muttered under my breath.
No—that wasn’t fair.
I knew exactly what was wrong with her.
Me.
My death.
I grabbed a cloth and pressed it against the wound, my jaw clenched as pain flared. I should have locked the door, because I regretted it when the door suddenly pushed open.
I froze.
Olivia walked in.
My head snapped up, tension ripping through me instantly. “Luna—”
She didn’t look at my face.
She looked at my arm.
The blood.
Her jaw tightened, and without a word, she crossed the room and grabbed my wrist. Her touch was firm, practiced, familiar in a way that made my chest constrict painfully.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, my voice low, and respectful.
She ignored the question.
She sat me down properly, her fingers already glowing faintly as she placed her palm over the cut. The familiar warmth of healing magic spread through my skin, sinking deep, knitting flesh together.
I sucked in a sharp breath.
Not from pain.
From her.
“Luna Olivia,” I said quietly. “You don’t have to—”
“I injured you,” she said, her voice tight. “It is right I heal you.”
Her eyes never left my arm.
The wound closed beneath her touch, skin smoothing as if it had never been there. When she was done, she pulled her hand away quickly, like she’d burned herself.
Silence fell between us.
She finally looked up at me then, and for a split second, something cracked in her expression—regret, guilt, fear—before she shoved it all back behind her walls.
“You didn’t fight back,” she said.
“I couldn’t,” I replied honestly.
Her lips pressed together. “You could have hurt me.”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you?”
Because you’re mine.
Because hurting you would break me.
Because every instinct in me exists to protect you.
“I’m just a guard…,” I said.
She didn’t let me finish.
Her free hand came up, grabbing my arm, yanking me down to her level. The motion was sudden, fierce—and then her mouth crashed into mine.