Mated to the Mad Lord-Chapter 276: Tied Down

Fiona wasn’t dead but she wanted to be.

The moment her body collided with the ground, a sickening crack echoed through the air, her bones shattering on impact. The pain had been immediate, overwhelming—then everything went dark.

But she hadn’t died.

Now, as her consciousness clawed its way back, she wished she had.

Heat burned through her veins like molten iron. Her body was repairing itself, forcing shattered bones to mend, torn flesh to knit back together.

But the process wasn’t smooth—it was agony. Werewolves healed fast, but the speed came at a price. Her nerves were on fire, her muscles spasming as her body fought to put itself back together.

She screamed.

A raw, guttural sound that tore from her throat, bouncing off the high walls of the mansion.

She barely registered the voices around her, the hands trying to hold her down. The bed beneath her—had they moved her? Was she still alive?

"Hold her still," came a calm but firm voice.

Through the haze, Fiona barely made out a stranger standing at the foot of her bed. A tall man with gray-streaked dark hair, his face impassive despite the chaos before him. He was dressed differently from the servants. A doctor. But not a human one.

"Her body is healing too fast for her to handle it," the doctor muttered as he checked her pulse. "The pain will drive her mad if she doesn’t stabilize."

She thrashed against the hands holding her down, her back arching as another scream ripped free.

The pain was unbearable.

It wasn’t just the physical torment—though that alone was excruciating—it was the cruel reality of survival. She had jumped, knowing there was a chance she wouldn’t make it. And yet, here she was, still breathing, still suffering.

A shadow moved in the corner of the room.

Fervor.

He stood near the window, watching her with that same cold, detached expression. He hadn’t said a word since she woke. No concern, no regret. Just silence.

She hated him for it.

"You shouldn’t be alive," the doctor murmured, pressing a damp cloth to her burning forehead. "A fall like that should’ve killed you. But your body refuses to let go."

Fiona gasped for air, her chest heaving. "Make it stop," she choked out, her voice barely a whisper between screams.

The doctor sighed. "I can ease it, but you need to calm down."

"Calm down?" she snarled, her nails digging into the sheets. "I—AHHHH!"

Her entire body seized, her spine arching as another bolt of pain shot through her. It was worse than dying. It was worse than anything.

The doctor turned to Fervor. "She needs a sedative. If this keeps up, her body will overheat from the strain."

Fervor didn’t move immediately. He simply watched her, his golden eyes unreadable. Then, without a word, he nodded.

The doctor pulled a vial from his coat and knelt by the bedside, his hand firm on Fiona’s arm. "This will help."

She didn’t care what it was. She just wanted the pain to end.

Another scream filled the mansion as the needle pressed into her skin.

And then—darkness.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Fiona awoke to the feeling of restriction.

Her arms—she couldn’t move them. Her legs—trapped. Something coarse and tight held her down, biting into her wrists and ankles.

Panic surged through her, a raw and uncontrollable thing, as she tried to jerk free. The restraints didn’t budge. She twisted violently, her breath coming in ragged gasps, only for a sharp pain to explode in her ribs. She let out a strangled cry, her vision blurring from the unbearable sensation radiating through her body.

Her body was still broken, still healing.

But she was awake. And she was bound.

Why?

Her head was spinning, her throat raw. She could still taste the metallic bitterness of blood on her tongue. Everything was wrong.

Her breathing hitched as she took in her surroundings.

The dim candlelight flickered against the stone walls of the mansion room—her room. The same room she had woken up in before. But something was different this time. The lingering scent of herbs in the air. The dried blood staining the sheets beneath her. And then, the worst realization—she was alone.

Or at least that was until the door creaked open.

Her body tensed as heavy footsteps approached. The scent hit her before she even saw him—cool, crisp, laced with something sharp and bitter. A presence she could recognize in the dark, in a crowd, even in death.

Fervor.

He stepped into the candlelight, his expression unreadable as he shut the door behind him. His golden eyes gleamed under the dim light, cold and assessing as they swept over her. He took in her bound form, her wild, tear-streaked face, the way her body trembled violently despite the warmth of the room.

Fiona glared at him, her chest heaving.

"You tied me down," she spat, her voice raw from screaming.

Fervor didn’t react. He walked to the edge of the bed and crossed his arms, his posture relaxed—too relaxed.

"You wouldn’t stop thrashing," he said simply. "You were tearing yourself apart."

Her breathing grew uneven. The memory of pain, of her body twisting against itself, of her own healing burning through her veins—it all crashed back onto her. But still, the rage in her chest burned brighter than the agony.

"You had no right," she snarled, yanking at the restraints. "Let me go!"

"You’ll hurt yourself again."

"I don’t care!" she screamed, her voice cracking. "You think I want this? You think I wanted to wake up?!"

Silence.

Fervor tilted his head, watching her with that same infuriating blank stare. He said nothing. He did nothing.

Her breath shuddered as tears welled up in her eyes. Her body was betraying her—healing her despite her desperation, despite the fact that she didn’t want to be here. Not anymore. Not after what she had lost.

"You should have let me die," she whispered, her voice trembling.

At that, something flickered in Fervor’s expression. Not emotion—not quite—but something close. A shift, a hesitation, before it was gone just as quickly.

"You didn’t die," he said evenly.

Fiona’s hands curled into fists, her nails digging into her palms.

"Why?" Her voice broke. "Why am I still alive?"

Fervor exhaled slowly. He stepped closer, pulling out a chair and sitting down beside the bed. His presence was suffocating. His scent, his stillness, the way he was watching her—it was too much.

"You survived because you’re a werewolf," he said at last. "Your body refused to die, even when you tried to make it."

She shut her eyes tightly, shaking her head. "I don’t want to be here."

"You don’t have a choice."

Fiona let out a bitter, broken laugh. "You’re a bastard, you know that?"

Fervor didn’t blink. "I do."

Her throat tightened as tears spilled over her cheeks. Her body trembled violently as fresh waves of grief and rage crashed into her all at once. She turned her head away, trying to steady her breathing, but it was useless. The pain in her body was unbearable, but the pain in her heart was worse.

She had lost everything.

Her beauty. Her child. Herself.

She was nothing now.

"You lost the baby," Fervor said suddenly, and her entire body stiffened. "But you already knew that."

Fiona clenched her jaw so tightly it ached. "I don’t need you to remind me."

His gaze didn’t waver. "I need you to listen."

"To what?" she snapped. "You’re going to tell me it doesn’t matter? That I can just ’have another one’?"

She was shaking so hard that the bedframe rattled beneath her.

Fervor didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he leaned forward slightly, his golden eyes piercing into hers.

"I need you to stay alive," he said, his voice quiet but firm.

A bitter laugh tore from her throat. "For what? So you can keep me locked up in this miserable place?"

"For yourself," he corrected, his tone sharper now. "Because whether you believe it or not, you’re not dead. And as much as you seem to hate it, your body is still fighting for you. That means something."

Doing his best to sound as empathetic as he could.

Fiona let out a choked sob, turning her head away from him. "I don’t want it."

"You don’t get to decide," Fervor replied coldly. "You never did."

A heavy silence fell between them. Fiona’s chest rose and fell rapidly, her breath hitching as fresh tears streaked down her face as anger bubbled up within her chest.

Fervor stood up to leave. "You need rest."

"I need you to go to hell," she shot back, her voice breaking.

He didn’t flinch. He simply turned to leave, his steps slow, calculated.

But just before he reached the door, he stopped. He hesitated.

Then, without looking back, he spoke.

"You’ll be untied when you stop screaming."

And with that, he left, shutting the door behind him.

Fiona clenched her jaw, her entire body trembling as a fresh wave of agony and anger threatened to swallow her whole.

She squeezed her eyes shut and she screamed.