The infirmary smelled of pine sap, rubbing alcohol, and old blood. It was a scent that should have made me gag, but instead, it settled over me like a familiar blanket. My hands moved before my brain could catch up.
"Hold him steady," I ordered the young nurse, my fingers deftly threading a bone needle through the jagged tear in a warrior's shoulder.
I didn't know the name of the herb paste I’d just applied—a pungent green sludge that stopped the bleeding instantly—but I knew exactly where to find it on the shelf. It was terrifying. My mind was a blank slate of New York subways and diner menus, but my body was a library of ancient werewolf medicine.
From the corner of the room, a shadow shifted. I didn't look up. I knew he was there. Clayton. The 'King.'
He had been standing there for three hours, watching me stitch and bandage with those haunted, hollow eyes. He looked like a man starving to death while watching a feast he couldn't touch. Every time I wiped sweat from my brow or hummed a tuneless melody, he flinched, as if the sound physically hurt him.
"You have the hands of a healer," he murmured, his voice rough with disuse.
I tied off the suture with a sharp tug. "I have the hands of a waitress who hates seeing people bleed out," I corrected, wiping my palms on my apron. "If you're just going to stare, you could at least boil some water."
He opened his mouth to speak, perhaps to apologize again, but a sudden, sharp pain spiked in my chest. It wasn't physical. It was a phantom tether, yanking hard to the east.
*Flynn.*
Droping the towel, I bolted. I didn't run like a human; I sprinted, my feet finding purchase in the mud, lungs pumping with an efficiency I hadn't possessed in Manhattan.
The commotion was near the training grounds. A circle of jeering teenagers had formed, their laughter cruel and sharp. In the center, Flynn was on his knees in the dirt. A hulking boy, clearly a shifted wolf, was looming over him, sneering.
"Go back to the human world, stray," the bully spat, kicking dirt into Flynn's face. "You smell like garbage."
Flynn was shaking. But it wasn't fear. I saw his shoulders hunch, his spine arching in an unnatural curve. A low, guttural sound tore from his throat—a sound that didn't belong to a human boy.
*Snap.*
Flynn's fingernails elongated, turning into jagged, black claws that dug furrows into the hard earth. He looked up, and the crowd gasped. His eyes were burning gold, the pupils slit like a predator's.
"Enough!"
The command boomed like thunder, vibrating in my teeth. The crowd parted instantly. Prince Eli strode into the circle, his face twisted in disgust. He didn't look at the bully. He looked at Flynn.
"Control yourself, mongrel," Eli barked. The air around him shimmered with heat—Alpha aura. He directed it entirely at Flynn.
Flynn cried out, slamming his forehead into the dirt as the invisible weight crushed him. He was suffocating, the Alpha power forcing him into submission.
"Eli, stop!" I screamed, pushing through the crowd.
Eli didn't hear me. He was focused on crushing the 'threat.' "You dare shift in my court? You dare challenge the hierarchy?"
Red clouded my vision. I didn't think. I didn't care that he was a Prince or that he could snap my neck with one hand. I crossed the distance in three strides.
*Smack.*
The sound of my palm striking Eli's cheek echoed across the training grounds like a gunshot.
The world went silent. The birds stopped singing. The wind stopped blowing.
Eli stumbled back, his hand flying to his face. The Alpha pressure vanished instantly. He stared at me, his eyes wide, his mouth opening and closing in shock. The great Prince, humbled by a slap.
I didn't give him a second glance. I dropped to my knees beside Flynn, pulling his trembling body into my arms. "Breathe, baby. Look at me. Just breathe."
Flynn buried his face in my shirt, his claws retracting, the gold fading from his eyes as he sobbed. I stroked his hair, glaring at the boots of the stunned warriors around us.
"Mother..." Eli whispered, his voice trembling. He took a step toward us, hand outstretched.
"Don't," I hissed, shielding Flynn with my body. "Stay away from him."
Eli flinched as if I’d slapped him again. He looked at his father, who had just arrived at the edge of the circle. Clayton stood frozen, watching the scene with a look of devastation—seeing his biological son rejected for the adopted one who had taken his place.
***
That evening, the summons came. Not a command, but a plea.
Clayton met me outside the healer's cottage. He had cleaned up; his hair was washed, and he wore a velvet coat that looked like it belonged in a museum. He held a scroll in his shaking hands.
" The Council... they are restless," he said quietly, refusing to meet my eyes. "The realm isn't stabilizing fast enough. They need to see us. Together."
I crossed my arms, leaning against the doorframe. "I'm not playing house with you, Clayton."
"It's the Solstice Dinner," he pressed, desperation leaking into his tone. "Just dinner. Like... like our first one. Five hundred years ago. I thought maybe... if you remembered..."
He looked so pathetic. So broken. But I remembered Flynn's face in the dirt. I remembered the fear in his eyes because he had no status, no protection in this savage world.
"I don't care about your dinner," I said coldly. "But Flynn needs papers. He needs official status so your son and his goons can't touch him again without violating pack law."
Clayton swallowed hard. "If you attend... if you sit by my side for one night... I will grant the boy full citizenship. He will be under the King's personal protection."
I looked at the man who claimed to be my soulmate. I felt nothing but a transactional resolve.
"Fine," I said. "One dinner. For Flynn."
