Marked By The Mad King Alpha (Phoebe and Perry) novel Chapter 122

Chapter 122: The Price of Treason

Perry’s Perspective

Phoebe was receiving every possible treatment the hospital could offer, but her condition remained dangerously fragile. Despite Lynn’s tireless efforts, the situation showed little improvement. The tension in the sterile hospital room was suffocating, and I couldn’t bring myself to leave her side even for a moment.

Reginald had managed to escape, though his warriors lay lifeless behind him. Now, a relentless hunting party was scouring the land, determined to track him down and bring him to justice. Yet, none of this mattered to me. My entire world had shrunk to the fragile form of my mate lying unconscious before me. I refused to sleep, even as exhaustion clawed at my bones. Marcela kept urging me to rest, warning that my health would suffer if I didn’t, but I simply ignored her. The healer was too afraid to press the issue, knowing how desperate I was.

Phoebe’s injury was severe—she had bitten through her own tongue, leaving a deep, painful wound that rendered her unable to speak. The silence was unbearable, only deepening my despair. Even if she could speak, I doubted she would want to say much. The weight of everything we had endured hung heavily between us.

How long would it be before I heard her voice again? Would I ever hear it at all?

I closed my eyes briefly, then shifted my gaze to the night sky outside the window. The first hints of dawn were creeping in, casting a pale light across the hospital room. Another day had passed, meaning Phoebe had now been unconscious for three long days.

“Please, wake up,” I whispered, my voice cracking with desperation.

I had never begged anyone like this before. Even during the cruel punishments my father inflicted on me, I had begged only once—and stopped when I realized it only made things worse. But with Phoebe, the pleading came naturally, uncontrollably. I found myself praying again, something I hadn’t done in years—anything to bring her back to me. She was my mate, the center of my existence, and without her, nothing else mattered.

Marcela was constantly moving between the hospital and the beach house, where she was also caring for Flynn. Sometimes she accidentally called him by his former title, which darkened Flynn’s expression with a flash of anger. But when she apologized, he dismissed it with a wave, as though the insult barely registered.

Flynn had grown silent, withdrawing into himself. Most of the time, he sat perfectly still, almost like a statue, as if he were no longer truly alive. He remained motionless for hours on end, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond the walls.

“You need to eat something,” Marcela insisted gently, placing a tray of food on the table. “If you don’t, your recovery will take even longer.”

She felt sorry for him, but after hearing the warriors’ accounts of why the king had punished and demoted Flynn, a fierce anger flared inside her. How could anyone be so heartless as to separate mates—especially when one of them was the king’s own mate?

Flynn didn’t respond to her words. Instead, he continued staring out the window, where the sky had darkened ominously. A storm was brewing, the air thick with tension.

“I’m sorry,” Marcela said softly, glancing at his bandaged legs. “But if you don’t heal properly, your condition could worsen. You might even need amputation.”

Suddenly, Flynn’s attention snapped to her, and he let out a bitter laugh, as if she had just told him the most absurd joke.

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