Just two days ago, I burned with a fever, 104 degrees, too high, the fever made me so weak I couldn't even lift a finger, and Draven didn't care, instead, he decided he'd go out to dine with Freya.
When he saw me sick, he spat curses and ordered the doctors to isolate me.
“Quarantine the entire house. Don’t let her infect Freya. Move her to the storage hut until she recovers!”
And what he said happened, like it was an order of a king never meant to be broken,
So I stayed in that hut.
No medicine. No warmth. Just stone floors and shadows.
I survived two days on nothing but moonlight and will.
But now? Freya flinched, and he summoned the entire pack to her aid.
I gripped my bag tighter, meaning to flee. But Alpha Draven caught my wrist.
“Kneel,” he growled, his voice sharp and cold as northern ice.
My knees struck the stone floor with a thud, pain shooting through my legs.
Sharp crystal edges from the mosaic tiles bit into my skin. The pain forced a gasp out of me.
Alpha Draven recoiled from the sound as though I were filth.
“Your mongrel beast scratched Freya. Either you apologize on its behalf, or…”
He turned to a servant. “Bring the creature. Kill it where she can see.”