Three

Twelve Hours Later

Every pothole the ambulance hits sends pain spiking through my chest, and I think: This is what humiliation feels like when it has a physical form.

The monitors are screaming. My body's symphony of failure is playing at full volume for everyone to hear.

Crystal grips my hand so hard I think she might break the bones that are left. "Hold on, Eve. You're going to make it."

I want to believe her. But wanting and believing are two different things , and I'm stuck somewhere between them, drowning.

My wolf is quiet again, like she's conserving energy for something. Or maybe she's already starting to let go, piece by piece, the way dying wolves do. The human heart stops last, they say. The wolf knows before we do.

The worst part isn't the pain. It's knowing. 

I was strong once. Fierce. The kind of Luna other packs whispered about with equal parts respect and fear. I could pin a full-grown Alpha in training. Could run for hours without breaking a sweat. Could command a room with nothing but my presence.

Now I'm a body in a metal box, breathing because machines say I can.

And I'm going to him for help.

The man who gave the order that ended my world.

I'm going to kneel before him. Beg for my life.

The irony makes me want to laugh. 

"Eve?" Crystal's voice cuts through my spiral. "Stay with me. Don't go anywhere in your head where I can't follow."

I try to squeeze her hand back. My fingers barely twitch.

Am I defiling my parents' memory by doing this? The thought burns through me. *What would they think, knowing their daughter crawled to their murderer for salvation?

But then another thought, quieter, more insidious: What would they think if you gave up? If you let Lance win?

My father always said the worst thing you could do was die with your enemy's laughter ringing in your ears.

The ambulance lurches to a stop. Doors fly open. Hands reach for my stretcher. I'm cargo now. A problem to be solved or discarded.

"Careful," Crystal snaps at one of the medics. "She's barely holding on."

They lift me, and the movement sends fire through every nerve. I can't even scream. That makes me hate myself.

We roll through automatic doors into the Metropolitan Care Center. 

Axel's domain.

Every wall, every tile, every breath of recycled air belongs to him. The security guards wear his insignia. The nurses scurry with the particular urgency of people who know their boss doesn't tolerate incompetence.

I'm in his territory now. Powerless. Dying.

Perfect.

Crystal rushes ahead to the front desk, already pulling out the envelope stuffed with cash. 

The receptionist looks up with the particular smile people use when they're about to tell you no. 

"Emergency admission," Crystal says, sliding the envelope across. "High-risk patient. We need immediate—"

"We'll get her processed." The receptionist doesn't even look at me. She counts the money with practiced fingers. "There's a queue, though. Could be a few hours."

"A few hours?" Crystal's voice goes sharp. "Look at her. She doesn't have hours."

The receptionist finally glances my way. Her nose wrinkles. "Werewolf?"

She says it like she's identified the source of a bad smell.

I can see Crystal fighting to stay calm.

“She needs immediate care."

"Everyone needs immediate care." The receptionist's smile doesn't reach her eyes. "That's why it's called an emergency room. But we have protocols. Lycans receive priority treatment, naturally. You understand."

Crystal leans forward. "That envelope contains more money than you make in three months. You really want to—"

"Are you attempting to bribe a medical facility?" The receptionist's voice gets louder. Drawing attention from the crowded waiting room. "Because that's—"

"I already bribed you!" Crystal hisses. "You took the money!"

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean." The smile is acidic now. "Unless you'd like to make a formal complaint? I'm happy to call security."

I watch this exchange through a fog of pain and medication, and all I can think is: This is how I die while lying on a stretcher in enemy territory.

Crystal's about to say something that will definitely get us thrown out when a voice cuts through the chaos:

An older nurse appears from a side hallway. "How long has she been waiting?"

"We just arrived—"

"Then process her. Now." The nurse turns to the receptionist.

The receptionist's smile evaporates. "Fine. But it's an additional processing fee—"

"Jesus Christ." Crystal pulls out another envelope. "Here. Choke on it."

They wheel me through doors marked AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY, down hallways. Every face we pass looks exhausted. Nurses moving too fast. Patients slumped in chairs with the particular stillness of people who've given up expecting help.

This is where werewolves come to die, I realize. While Lycans get private rooms and attentive care, we get triage hallways and conditional compassion.

"Where's the King?" Crystal demands as they push me into what barely qualifies as a room. "Isn't he supposed to examine high-risk cases himself?"

The older nurse—her name tag says MARGARET—sighs. "He hasn't arrived yet. And you better watch your tone, honey. You want him to help your friend? Then maybe don't insult him before he gets here."

I drift in and out after that. At some point they give me some medication that makes the pain distant but doesn't make it stop. 

My wolf stirs. 

Something's coming, she whispers. *Can you feel it?*

I can. A shift in the air. 

The energy in the hallway transforms. Nurses straighten. Doctors snap to attention. 

He's here.

I keep my eyes closed. Can't face it yet. Can't reconcile the contradictions in my head: that the monster who killed my parents is the only one who can save me now. That fate could be this cruel. That the universe could have this savage a sense of humor.

Maya pushes against my consciousness, more alert than she's been in weeks. Something's wrong, she murmurs. Something's... different.

The air gets heavier. Harder to breathe, and not because my lungs are failing. Because every instinct I have is screaming that the enemy just entered the room.

Crystal rushes to him. "Your Majesty. My friend is dying. She's all I have left. Please. Help her."

Someone tries to pull her back. She shakes them off.

"Your Majesty, Elder Lucien should be treated first." A nurse announces. "He's been waiting—"

"She's DYING!" Crystal's scream echoes off the walls.

"Enough."

One word. That's all it takes. The entire hallway falls silent.

His voice is cold. The kind of voice that doesn't need volume to command absolute attention.

"Do you think the world revolves around your friend?"

I hear Crystal's sharp intake of breath. "Excuse me?"

"Look around." His footsteps move closer. I can track them by sound alone. "See them? They're all dying. They all think they're the only ones who matter. You're not special. Neither is she."

Each word lands hard. He sounds indifferent. Like he's explaining basic mathematics to a child.

"You son of a bitch!"

Gasps ripple through the room.

"One more word," he says, and there's something in his voice now. Something dark. "And you'll be the next patient on a stretcher."

Silence pressed against my eardrums.

Then his voice again, slightly raised: "Who arrived first? Her or the Elder?"

A nurse stammers: "She did, Your Majesty. But Elder Lucien is—"

"I don't recall asking about the Elder's importance. I asked who arrived first."

"She did, sir."

"Then that's your answer."

I hear the doctor who examined me earlier try to interject: "But, Your Majesty, the Elder specifically requested—"

"Do I look like I care what the Elder requested?"

"No, sir."

Footsteps approach my stretcher. I force my breathing to stay even, force myself to remain perfectly still even though every cell in my body is screaming awareness.

"There won't be a repeat of this circus," he says, and I know he's talking to Crystal. "You get one chance. Use it wisely."

Maya is thrashing now. Actually thrashing, like she's trying to claw through my skin.

What's wrong? I ask her.

I don't know. I don't know, but something—

His scent hits me. Cedar. Rain. Something wild and ancient that makes my hindbrain light up with recognition that has nothing to do with memory.

My wolf screams. Not in pain. In recognition.

Mate.