The workspace I rented was barely a workspace. More like a concrete box with a rusted ventilation grate and a single bulb that flickered when trucks passed on the street above. I didn't care. It had a door that locked. It had running water. It had enough square footage for my brewing setup and a cot in the corner where Barnaby slept curled against my ribs at night.
I worked eighteen-hour days. Sometimes twenty. My hands stopped shaking after the first week. The bond-severance pain settled into something I could breathe around — a dull ache in my chest that flared when I moved wrong or thought too hard. I learned not to think too hard.
I sourced raw wolfsbane through neutral channels, the kind of suppliers who didn't ask questions if you paid cash. I brewed in batches, testing each compound twice because I had no margin for error. My formulas were better than anything else on the market. I knew it. The clinics that served packless wolves and injured rogues knew it too, once they tried them. My barriers held longer. My healing compounds worked faster. Nobody else could replicate the wolfsbane-laced variants I had developed alone in Ironridge's cellar, the ones Deacon had claimed credit for at three separate pack summits.
I didn't sleep much. When I did, I dreamed of my father's face the last time I saw him — pale, too thin, his breathing shallow in the human hospital bed where they had done everything they could and it wasn't enough. He needed Lycan-grade care. The kind that cost more than I had ever seen in one place.
So I worked.
Within three weeks, I had a reputation. Within five, I had a waiting list. Within seven, I had the contract offer that would change everything.
---
The Lycan-run healing ward sat on neutral territory, a sleek glass-and-stone building that looked more like a private clinic than a place where wolves came to not die. I walked in at exactly nine in the morning with my compound catalogue in a leather folder and Barnaby on a leash at my ankle. The receptionist looked at the pup, then at me, then back at the pup.
"He's a service animal," I said.
She didn't argue.
Corvan Wagner's office was on the third floor. Floor-to-ceiling windows. A desk that probably cost more than my entire workspace. He stood when I entered — tall, silver-haired, the kind of Lycan lord who wore authority like a second skin — and gestured to the chair across from him.
"Ms. Carter."
"Mr. Wagner."
I sat. Barnaby settled at my feet. I opened the folder and slid the catalogue across the desk.
"These are the compounds I can supply. Wolfsbane-laced healing accelerants, barrier formulas in three grades, and a topical variant for deep-tissue regeneration that your current supplier doesn't carry. I can deliver weekly. Payment terms are net-fifteen, non-negotiable."
He picked up the catalogue. Flipped through it slowly. His expression didn't change.
"Your barriers," he said. "How long do they hold?"
"Seventy-two hours minimum. Longer if the perimeter is reinforced."
"Your current supplier guarantees forty-eight."
"Your current supplier is selling you inferior product."
The corner of his mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. "And the healing accelerants?"
"Faster absorption rate. Less scarring. I've tested them on myself."
He set the catalogue down. Looked at me for a long moment. I held his gaze. I had nothing left to lose and we both knew it.
"I'll take the contract," he said. "Standard terms. You can transfer your father to our care as part of the arrangement."
I exhaled. Slowly. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me. Your formulas are better. It's a business decision."
He stood. Extended his hand. I shook it. His grip was firm, brief, professional. When I left his office, my father's transfer was already being processed.
---
I met Zayd Wagner in the hallway outside the intensive care wing.
He wasn't visiting. He was working — or something close to it — adjusting ward schedules on a clipboard when I rounded the corner with Barnaby and nearly walked into him. He stepped back. I stopped short.
"Sorry," I said.
He looked at me. Then at the pup. Then back at me. "You're the wolfsbane supplier."
"Kinsley Carter."
"Zayd Wagner."
We didn't shake hands. He was younger than I expected — mid-twenties, maybe, with dark hair and the kind of steady gaze that made you feel like he was actually listening. He smelled like wild sage and woodsmoke. The scent hit something low in my chest, a faint pull I couldn't name.
I pushed past it.
"I need to speak with the healer assigned to my father," I said. "Tomas Carter. He was just transferred."
"Room 304. Dr. Ashford is with him now." He paused. "You want Lycan-grade care beyond the standard contract terms."
It wasn't a question.
"Yes."
"I'll arrange it."
I blinked. "Just like that?"
"I reviewed his file this morning. He needs it." Zayd made a note on the clipboard. "Give me ten minutes. There's a chair in the waiting area if you want to sit."
I looked at him. He looked back. No pity. No performative concern. Just a man who had read a file and made a decision.
"Thank you," I said.
He nodded once and walked toward the nurses' station. I watched him go. Barnaby pressed against my ankle, and I realized my hand had gone to my neck — to the cold spot where the mark used to be.
I lowered it.
I took the chair.
And I waited.
