The tang of iodine and sterilized steel replaced the metallic scent of blood, sharp and clinical in the air.
Elara stood in the corner of the pack's private medical wing, arms crossed tightly over her chest. Her silver gown, once elegant, now bore the stains of dust and soot along its hem. Her disheveled hair framed her face like a wild halo—a fallen angel who had survived apocalypse.
In the center of the sterile room, Damien perched on the edge of a metal examination table, his broad chest bare under the harsh fluorescent lights.
His torso mapped violence in vivid detail. Violet-black bruises bloomed across his ribs where chandelier debris had struck, already fading beneath his Alpha healing. But his left shoulder told a different story—a jagged, ugly gash carved deep into the deltoid muscle. The flesh surrounding it wasn't healthy pink or angry red, but a sickly grey. Black veins spider-webbed outward from the wound, creeping toward his neck like poisonous tendrils.
"Hold still, Alpha," Dr. Evans murmured. The elderly wolf's hands trembled slightly, but his eyes missed nothing as he worked the forceps into the wound, extracting a sliver of silver shrapnel with practiced precision.
Damien remained motionless, silent. His only tell was his white-knuckled grip on the table's edge, the metal bending beneath his fingers like putty.
His eyes never left Elara.
"You should be resting," he rasped, his voice rough as gravel grinding against stone.
"I'm not leaving," Elara replied quietly. "The threat is neutralized. You are safe."
"You are not safe," she countered, pointing at his shoulder. "That isn't healing."
Dr. Evans dropped the shard of metal into a steel tray with a damning clink. He sighed, wiping sweat from his lined brow.
"She's right, Alpha," the doctor said grimly. "It was silver, yes. But it was coated. Aconite. Concentrated."
The pronouncement hung in the air, heavy as a death sentence.
Aconite—wolfsbane. Lethal to regular wolves. To an Alpha of Damien's bloodline, it wouldn't kill instantly, but would rot him from within. It neutralized his healing factor, leaving his body to fight infection like a human's.
"Clean it," Damien ordered. "Stitch it. Bandage it."
"Sir, we need to pump your stomach. We need to start dialysis to filter the blood—"
"We don't have time," Damien snapped. He slid off the table, ignoring the doctor's protest. For a moment, he swayed, face draining of color, but steadied himself before Elara could rush forward.
"The estate was breached," Damien said, his voice reclaiming its authority. "They bypassed the perimeter wards. That means they had inside information or tech we haven't seen before. This house is compromised."
He turned to Alfred, who stood by the door, devastation etched into his features.
"Prepare the SUV," Damien commanded. "The armored one. No driver. I'll drive."
"Sir!" Alfred protested. "You can barely stand."
"I said I will drive. We are going to the Lodge."
Alfred paled. "The North Lodge? Sir, it's winter. The roads are—"
"It's the only place off the grid," Damien interrupted. "No electronic locks. No digital footprint. Just walls and woods. Pack your things, Elara. We leave in ten minutes."
He brushed past her, grabbing a fresh shirt from the chair. As he pulled it on, a hiss of pain escaped through clenched teeth.
Elara stepped in front of him, hands hovering over his buttons.
"Let me," she whispered.
Damien froze, looking down at her. Pain clouded his eyes, mingled with something else—desire, gratitude, exhaustion.
He dropped his hands in surrender.
Elara buttoned his shirt, fingers brushing against the fevered skin of his chest. Heat radiated from him—the infection taking hold with alarming speed.
"You can't drive," she said softly, securing the collar. "You'll pass out."
"I have to get you out of here," he murmured, leaning his forehead against hers. His weight settled against her, heavier than before. "They know you're here. They saw you."
"I can drive," Elara said.
Damien laughed, a weak, breathless sound. "You? Drive my tank?"
"I grew up in Ohio, Damien. I can drive in snow. Give me the keys."
He studied her for a long moment, seeing the steel in her spine, remembering how she'd faced down an army in a ballgown.
"Fine," he whispered. "But if you crash my car, I'm adding it to your tuition bill."
The North Woods – 4:30 AM
The drive was grueling.
The "Lodge" lay three hours north, deep in mountains where cell service died and roads transformed into treacherous ribbons of gravel and ice.
Elara piloted the massive, blacked-out SUV with white-knuckled focus. Headlights carved through swirling snow, illuminating endless rows of pine trees standing like silent sentinels in the dark.
Beside her, Damien deteriorated.
For the first hour, he'd stayed vigilant, watching mirrors, giving directions in clipped sentences.
By the second hour, he'd fallen silent.
Now, he slumped against the window, breath shallow and rapid. The infection spread visibly, wolfsbane attacking his nervous system with ruthless efficiency.
"Damien?" Elara called, glancing over. "Stay with me."
"I'm here," he mumbled, eyes closed. "Just... tired."
"We're almost there. The GPS says two miles."
"Watch out for the... bridge," he slurred. "It gets... icy."
Elara navigated the treacherous wooden structure, tires crunching over frozen planks. Ahead, a silhouette emerged from darkness.
It wasn't a "lodge" in any conventional sense. It was a fortress of timber and stone, built into the side of a cliff, ancient and impenetrable. She pulled to the front, killed the engine, and mountain silence descended like a physical weight.
"We're here," she said. Damien didn't move.
Elara unbuckled and rushed to the passenger side. When she opened the door, Damien tumbled out.
She caught him, barely—two hundred and thirty pounds of muscle and bone threatening to drag her down. She grunted, knees buckling in the snow.
"Damien, you have to walk," she pleaded, shoulder wedged under his arm. "I can't carry you."
He groaned, eyelids fluttering. His grey irises appeared dull, clouded with fever.
"Elara," he whispered. "Run."
"Shut up," she panted, dragging him toward the door. "I'm not running. Step. Move your legs."
Somehow, they made it inside.
The lodge interior was bone-chilling cold. Elara deposited him onto a massive leather sofa in the main room and immediately tackled the fireplace. Within minutes, flames roared to life, casting long, dancing shadows against log walls.
She sprinted back to the car for the medical bag Dr. Evans had insisted she take. When she returned, Damien shivered violently, teeth chattering audibly.
"Cold," he gasped.
Elara gathered every blanket she could find—thick wool throws and heavy furs—piling them atop him. It wasn't enough. Wolfsbane lowered body temperature. He was slipping into hypothermia.
She needed to check the wound.
"I need to take your shirt off," she said, kneeling beside the sofa.
Damien managed a weak smirk. "At least... buy me dinner first."
"You're an idiot," she said, voice trembling.
She unbuttoned the shirt she'd fastened hours earlier. When she peeled back the fabric, a gasp escaped her lips.
The infection had spread. Black veins now reached his collarbone and bicep. The wound itself oozed a dark, foul-smelling liquid.
'He is dying,' Lumina said. The wolf's voice was solemn. 'The poison is binding to his heart.'
"I can fix it," Elara thought frantically. "I can use the magic."
'If you use the magic now, while he is weak but conscious, he will feel it. He will know. And if the enemy is tracking magic... you will lead them right to us.'
Elara hesitated, studying Damien's face. Sweat beaded on his ashen forehead despite the cold.
She couldn't perform a full healing. Too risky. But she could draw out the worst poison—just enough to buy time.
She opened the medical kit, grabbing rubbing alcohol and a clean cloth.
"This is going to hurt," she warned.
Damien nodded, fingers digging into leather cushions. "Do it."
Elara cleaned the wound again. As she wiped away dark ooze, she released a tiny, microscopic thread of energy through her fingertips.
Push. Pull.
She visualized the poison as black sludge, using her energy to hook onto it and draw it toward the surface.
Damien's back arched, a guttural roar tearing from his throat. "Elara!" he gasped.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she cried, tears streaming down her face. "Hold on."
She pulled one final time.
Black blood gushed from the wound, soaking the cloth. Damien collapsed back, chest heaving. The tension in his body released like a cut string.
The black veins didn't vanish, but they stopped spreading. They receded an inch.
It worked. Not a cure, but stabilization.
Elara bandaged him quickly with trembling hands. She cleaned away the blood, tossed the soiled cloths into the fire, and sank onto the rug beside the sofa.
She watched his chest rise and fall. The rhythm slowed, steadied.
She sat vigil for an hour, monitoring his sleep.
Eventually, Damien stirred. His eyes opened, clearer now.
He turned to look at her, huddled on the floor, head resting on her knees as she stared into the flames.
"Elara," he rasped.
She looked up. "You're awake. How do you feel?"
"Like I got hit by a train." He attempted to sit, but she pressed him back down. "Stay down."
His gaze dropped to her hands, then sharpened. "The pipe," he said suddenly.
Elara stiffened, knowing this moment was inevitable.
"What pipe?"
"At the gala," Damien said, voice low but incisive. "The water pipe. It didn't just burst. You looked at it, clenched your fist, and it exploded."
"It was a coincidence, Damien. A stray bullet."
"I didn't hear a bullet."
"There was a lot of noise. You were fighting."
"I am never too busy to notice my surroundings," he murmured. "And just now. When you cleaned the wound. It felt... different. Like fire and ice inside my shoulder. It felt like you."
Elara stood, retreating from his accusation. She walked to the window, gazing into snowy darkness.
"You're delirious with fever," she said, back turned to him.
"Stop lying to me!"
The shout was weak but carried the weight of his frustration.
"I am dying, Elara," he said softly. "I can feel it. The wolfsbane runs deep. If we are going to die in this cabin, I want to know who I am dying with."
Elara turned. Firelight carved shadows across her face, highlighting the conflict in her eyes.
"You aren't going to die," she said fiercely. "I won't let you."
"How?" Damien challenged. "Dr. Evans couldn't fix it. How can you?"
"Because I'm stubborn," she deflected. "And because you promised to protect me. You can't protect me if you're dead."
Damien watched her, seeing the walls she'd built, the terror in her eyes—not for herself, but for him.
He sighed, head falling back against the cushion. "Come here," he said gently.
"No. You need space."
"I need heat," he corrected. "I'm freezing, Elara. Body heat is the only thing that helps with wolfsbane chills."
With trembling fingers, Damien lifted the edge of the blanket with his good arm. "Please," he whispered, voice raw and broken in the stillness. "Just hold me."
Elara froze, her pulse quickening. Danger hung between them like smoke. The proximity would make their bond scream with awareness, with hunger. But his body shook with renewed tremors, skin ashen beneath the firelight.
She crossed the room, the floorboards creaking beneath her steps. Her heels clattered against the wooden floor as she kicked them off. The massive sofa dipped beneath her weight as she climbed onto it, sliding under the heavy furs beside him. The pelts carried the scent of pine and woodsmoke. She positioned herself on her side, facing him, carefully avoiding his injured shoulder where dried blood had crusted around the bandage.
Damien immediately encircled her waist with his good arm, pulling her against him until their bodies aligned perfectly. He buried his face in the hollow of her neck, inhaling deeply as if drawing strength from her scent.
"Better," he murmured, his lips brushing against her skin, sending shivers down her spine.
Elara felt the steady thud of his heart against her chest, slow and heavy, like distant thunder. His skin burned against hers, feverish yet comforting.
"You smell like magic," he whispered, his words slurring as consciousness slipped from his grasp. "My little witch."
His breathing deepened, arm still locked around her waist as sleep claimed him.
Elara remained awake, watching amber flames dance in the hearth, casting long shadows across the ceiling. Witch. The word echoed in her mind. A manageable misunderstanding. A witch commanded power, respect even, but wasn't divine. A witch wasn't the White Wolf—wasn't what she truly was.
Her eyelids grew heavy, the warmth of his body and the crackling fire lulling her toward oblivion as her own exhaustion finally won out.
≫ ──── ≪•◦ ❈ ◦•≫ ──── ≪
Meanwhile, in an abandoned warehouse at the city limits, the sharp crack of plastic against concrete echoed through the cavernous space as Kane, leader of the Iron Fang mercenaries, hurled his phone against the wall. It exploded into glittering shards.
"He got away," Kane snarled, spittle flying from his lips. The tang of blood and sweat hung heavy in the musty air. "He took her to the North Lodge."
His lieutenant dabbed at a gash above his eye, wincing as the cloth came away crimson. "The Lodge is impenetrable," he said, voice gravelly with exhaustion. "We can't breach those walls without heavy artillery."
A cruel smile twisted Kane's scarred lips, the dim light catching on a gold tooth. "We don't need to breach them."
His fingers, calloused and stained with gunpowder, pulled a tablet from his jacket. "We hit him with the tainted blade. The aconite is a special blend. It doesn't just kill; it signals."
The screen cast an eerie blue glow across his face as he displayed a map of the mountains. A faint, pulsing red dot blinked rhythmically against the topographical lines.
"The nanobots in the poison are transmitting," Kane said, the excitement in his voice palpable, metallic. "We know exactly where they are."
"So we attack?" The lieutenant's fingers twitched toward his holstered weapon.
"No." Kane zoomed in on the map, the red dot growing larger. "We wait. The poison will weaken him. In twenty-four hours, the great Damien Blackwood will be too weak to lift a finger. And then..."
His thumb caressed the screen, eyes gleaming with malice in the darkness.
"Then we go in. We kill the Alpha. And we take the White Wolf." He inhaled deeply, as if already tasting victory. "Her blood will make us kings."