Without his support, I slumped to the cold marbled floor like a discarded doll.
Blackness swallowed me whole, the doctor’s shouts dimming as the world slipped away.
--
I woke to antiseptic air and harsh fluorescent light. The sterile scent of the pack infirmary stung my nose.
Draven sat nearby, tapping on his laptop. The moment he noticed I was awake, he closed it and grabbed the bowl on the tray table.
He offered me a spoonful of porridge—mechanical, detached.
“I can feed myself,” I murmured.
But swallowing felt like dragging razors down my throat. I winced with every bite.
The Alpha watched, his brow creased like I was a failing calculation he couldn’t fix.
When I reached for the next spoon, he caught my wrist, firm but not unkind.
“The doctor said you need more blood later,” he said. “Back at the packhouse—it was rushed. We didn’t mean to take so much. You can—”
“There's no need for that,” I said, cutting him off. “I’m not dying.”
His eyes flickered, confused by the lack of submission.
Silence settled between us like fog.
Then he spoke again, his voice shifting. “Your phone’s been going off all day.”
I reached for it. Dozens of missed calls. Messages. Notifications.