My Bratty Wife
Chapter 191 - Hundred And Ninety One

Chapter 191: Chapter Hundred And Ninety One

Disclaimer: this Chapter contains scenes of suffering and pain. If it’s uncomfortable to read, you can skip.

Ryan was standing and panting as he threw the pistol on his bed, clenching his waist. He staggered to his wardrobe, tearing a piece of his own clothing, his movements frantic and desperate, trying to apply pressure to the deep wound in his waist. His face was contorted in pain, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

Davis, still reeling from the shock of the scene before him, finally registered the details of the room. He saw the bloody knife, its blade glistening crimson, tossed carelessly across the room. He saw the dead body, lying in a spreading pool of blood, its lifeless eyes staring up at the ceiling. He saw Ryan’s pistol, lying on the bed, its polished surface reflecting the dim light.

Ryan grunted, his voice strained and desperate. "Call Abernathy," he commanded, his words punctuated by sharp intakes of breath. "Now!!!"

Davis, his mind finally clearing, snapped into action. He turned and rushed out of the room, his footsteps echoing through the silent castle as he raced to find the doctor.

Ryan, left alone, gritted his teeth against the searing pain. He remembered the time when Suzy had saved him, when they were ambushed in the forest. Her quick thinking, her steady hands, her determination. He tried to mimic her actions, to stay calm, to control the bleeding.

He reached for the bottle of alcohol on the bedside table, his hand trembling slightly. He poured the alcohol onto the wound, a loud growl of pain escaping his lips. The stinging sensation was excruciating, but he knew it was necessary to prevent infection.

He then tore a large piece of cotton linen from his shirt and wrapped it tightly around his waist, trying to staunch the flow of blood. His body was slick with sweat, his breathing shallow and rapid. He leaned back against the headboard, his eyes closed, waiting for the doctor to arrive. He was losing blood fast. He knew he had to stay conscious.

The image of the attacker flashed through his mind. He had been so careful. So vigilant. How had someone managed to get past his defenses? Except the person is from inside. A spy and why were they two?

Moments later, Doctor Abernathy rushed into the room, Davis close behind, his face pale and drawn. Abernathy, his medical bag clutched tightly in his hand, moved with urgency, his eyes scanning the chaotic scene. He knelt beside Ryan, his fingers probing the wound, his expression grim.

Ryan’s skin was clammy, his breathing shallow and erratic. He was drifting in and out of consciousness, his body teetering on the edge of oblivion. Abernathy’s eyes quickly discerned the indicating signs of poisoning, the discoloration around the wound, the rapid, thready pulse.

"Your Grace," Abernathy said, his voice shaking with a mixture of fear and urgency. "The wound... it’s poisoned."

He quickly began to administer a concoction of theriac and bezoar stone, hoping to counteract the poison’s spread, his hands moving with efficiency. "We need to act quickly. This poison is potent."

Davis stood beside them, his eyes filled with terror, his hands trembling, folded in a pleading manner. "Please, Your Grace," he pleaded, his voice choked with emotion. "Stay. Please don’t go, Her Grace needs you."

Ryan’s eyes fluttered open, his gaze unfocused, his voice barely a whisper. "The Duchess... Cassandra..." he murmured, his voice weak and strained. "Cassandra..."

His voice trailed off, his eyes closing, his body succumbing to the insidious grip of the poison. He passed out, his breathing becoming even more shallow and labored then all of a sudden it stopped.

Abernathy became afraid and worked feverishly, applying poultices of willow bark and mandrake to alleviate the pain and slow the poison’s spread. He applied a tourniquet above the wound, trying to keep the poison from reaching his heart. He also began to administer a draught of laudanum, hoping to calm Ryan’s nerves and ease the suffering .

"We need to get this poison out of his body. Quickly." Abernathy said to Davis, whose eyes were filled with tears.

Davis, though shaken, tried to remain calm. "What can we do?" he asked.

"We need to apply a hot iron to the wound, to cauterize it, to burn away the poisoned flesh." Abernathy replied, his voice grave. He looked at Ryan who just started breathing. "It will be extremely painful, but it is his only chance In staying alive."

Davis nodded, his face pale. "Do it."

Abernathy looked at him, his eyes filled with a sad resolve. "Hold him down, Davis. It will take all our strength to keep him from moving."

The room was filled with a heavy silence, broken only by Ryan’s ragged breathing and the clinking of medical instruments. The air was thick with tension, the weight of Ryan’s life hanging in the balance.

Abernathy, his face grim, retrieved a thick iron rod from his medical bag. He walked to the fireplace, the flames casting dancing shadows on his face, and carefully placed the rod into the glowing embers. He waited, his eyes fixed on the metal, until it glowed a fierce, angry red.

He turned back to Ryan, his expression filled with a grim determination. Ryan, still unconscious, lay pale and still on the bed, his breathing shallow and labored.

"Hold him steady, Davis," Abernathy instructed, his voice firm. "This will be agonizing."

Davis, his hands trembling, nodded, his eyes filled with a mixture of fear and resolve. He gripped Ryan’s shoulders, bracing himself for the ordeal.

Abernathy, his hands steady despite the tremor in his voice, lifted the glowing iron rod. He placed it directly onto the poisoned wound.

A searing scream ripped through the room, a raw, primal sound of agony. Ryan thrashed violently, his body arching off the bed, his muscles straining against Davis’s grip. He tried to pull his arms free, his eyes snapping open, filled with a wild, uncomprehending pain.

"Hold him down!" Abernathy commanded, his voice sharp and urgent.

Davis, his own face contorted with empathy, struggled to maintain his hold. "Guards!" he shouted, his voice hoarse. "Help me!"

Two guards, alerted by the commotion, rushed into the room, their faces pale and alarmed. They quickly moved to assist Davis, their strong hands pinning Ryan’s limbs to the bed.

Abernathy, his expression grim and focused, pressed the hot iron against the wound again, the smell of burning flesh filling the room. Ryan’s screams echoed through the castle, a chilling testament to the excruciating pain he was enduring.

Abernathy repeated the procedure, cauterizing the wound, burning away the poisoned flesh, until he was certain that the poison was contained. He then applied a thick poultice of herbs and bandages, his movements swift and efficient.

He stepped back, his face pale and sweat-streaked, his eyes filled with a weary relief. "He’s out of danger," he announced, his voice hoarse. "The poison is contained. But he’s lost a lot of blood. He will need rest, and constant care."

Davis, his own body trembling, nodded, his eyes fixed on Ryan’s still form. The guards released their grip, their faces grim. The room was heavy with the smell of burnt flesh and the lingering echoes of Ryan’s screams. The silence was broken only by Ryan’s slow and shallow breathing.