Vengeance in His Bed novel Chapter 9

Chapter 9: The Untamed Garden

Guron Grefo did not flinch at Jannah’s panic. He remained as still as a statue, his golden eyes reflecting the setting sun through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The silence of the luxurious suite felt heavy, pressing against Jannah’s lungs as she struggled to breathe through the shock of his revelation.

"Impossible?" Guron’s voice was a low, resonant vibration. "I don’t believe in that word, Jannah. Especially not from the girl who saved old Silas, the Enigma of the south docks. He had a heart disease that three of the federation’s top surgeons called terminal. They said his valves were calcified beyond repair, that he was a dead man walking. And yet, after two months of your ’simple roots and leaves,’ he’s back to hauling crates and drinking ale like a man half his age."

Jannah’s pulse spiked. She hadn’t realized the reach of the Grefo family’s intelligence network. Silas had been a secret, a man she’d treated in the shadows of a basement to avoid the authorities.

"That was different," she stammered, her hands clutching the worn strap of her satchel. "The heart is a pump. It responds to the chemistry of the blood. But an alpha’s virility? That is tied to his spirit, his dominance, his very ego. Dorrent... he loathes me. He loathes everything I represent. How am I supposed to heal a man who won’t even let me breathe the same air as him?"

Guron stepped closer, his presence expanding until he seemed to occupy the entire room. He placed a heavy, reassuring hand on her shoulder—a gesture that felt less like comfort and more like the closing of a trap.

"I believe in you, Jannah Nenth. " Guron said, his voice dropping into a persuasive, honeyed register. "You don’t have to hurry. I’m not asking for a miracle by sunrise. Take all the time you need. Stay in this house, use my resources, and find the cure. Even if it takes months, the offer stands. Your grandfather is safe. Your future is secure."

Jannah felt the tension slowly drain from her shoulders, replaced by a cold, calculating numbness. She looked at the marble floor, her mind racing. Guron thought he was motivating a desperate healer. He didn’t realize he was arming an assassin.

Whether Dorrent healed or stayed broken didn’t truly matter to her. If she succeeded, she would be the one who held his pride in her hands. If she failed, she would spend months feeding the monster "medicines" that would slowly erode his strength, ensuring he never rose again. She was here for blood, not for a medical breakthrough.

"Fine," Jannah whispered, her dark eyes flashing with a hidden, icy resolve. "I’ll stay. I’ll try."

"Excellent," Guron purred, withdrawing his hand. He checked a sleek, holographic watch on his wrist. "There is no better time to begin than now. It is Dorrent’s scheduled bathing hour. The servants have prepared a medicinal soak in his suite, and the tub is filled with mineral salts. I’ve heard many herbalists believe the skin is the most direct path to the blood. Go to him. See what you can find."

Jannah nodded slowly. She grabbed her satchel, the dried herbs inside rattling like the teeth of a skeleton. Without another word, she walked toward the connecting door that led to the corridor of Dorrent’s private sanctuary.

The hallway was silent, she reached the double doors of Dorrent’s room. They were heavy, carved from dark walnut, and to her surprise, they were slightly ajar. She didn’t knock. To knock was to ask for permission, and she knew Dorrent would never grant it.

She slipped inside, her worn boots making no sound on the thick, plush rugs. The bedroom was a cavern of dark blues and grays, dominated by a massive bed that looked more like a throne. But it was empty. From the far end of the room, through a set of frosted glass doors, she heard the soft, rhythmic splashing of water.

Jannah crept forward, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She pushed the glass door open just an inch. The bathroom was filled with steam, the air smelling of salt and damp stone. In the center of the room was a sunken bathtub, carved from a single block of emerald-green marble.

Dorrent was there.

He was submerged in the steaming water, his massive, muscular frame hidden beneath the surface. Only his head was visible, resting back against the marble lip of the tub. His eyes were closed, his sharp, handsome features softened by the heat, though his jaw remained clenched even in his supposed relaxation.

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