“No. Just something… unexpected happened this time. But it won’t be long now. I’ll contact you then.”
Just as I ended the call, the infirmary door creaked open, heavy door groaning against the stone floor.
Draven stood there, silhouetted in the doorway, his golden wolf eyes glowing faintly beneath the flickering sconces. His gaze locked onto mine, as if stunned by something he hadn’t seen in years—my smile.
A real one.
No bitterness. No anguish. Just silence, serenity.
His brow twitched, barely noticeable—but I caught it.
“Freya’s having a rough time with the bond and pregnancy. Morning sickness,” he said, his voice low, clipped. His hand curled into a loose fist by his side. “I have to get back to her.”
He didn’t ask who had called me.
Because if he did, that would mean he still gave a damn.
And admitting that would be a crack in his carefully maintained Alpha pride.
He snatched his suit from the chair and tossed it over his shoulder. “Something urgent at the southern border. I’ll return tomorrow.”
The door shut before I could reply.
I turned to the IV bag pumping wolfsbane antidote into my veins and started counting the drops.
One drop.
Two drops.