“I like her,” Tristan whispers.
The door swings open to reveal a dark, quiet apartment. Books are everywhere, as if Zoe was in the middle of spring cleaning and reorganizing the place and just stopped midway.
“Zoe?” I call out, stepping inside. “Where are you?”
No answer, but the static in my head has quieted to an almost imperceptible hum. She’s here. Close.
“Bedroom,” Dane says, already moving down the short hallway, guided by some instinct we all share. We follow, a silent, worried procession.
The bedroom door is ajar, a faint light spilling out. I push it open and freeze at the threshold.
Zoe is lying on the bed, tangled in sheets that are damp with sweat. Her skin is flushed, her hair a dark, wet halo around her head. Even from here, I can see the claiming marks on her neck are angry, inflamed, almost pulsing with heat.
“Jesus,” Tristan whispers behind me. “Is she?—?”
“She’s alive,” Dane says, already moving to the bed. He touches her forehead with a gentleness I’ve rarely seen from him. “But she’s burning up.”
I snap out of my momentary paralysis and follow him to the bed. Up close, Zoe looks even worse. Her breathing is shallow and rapid, her lips cracked from dehydration. The claiming marks are a stark, violent red against her pale skin.
“Zoe,” I say, taking her hand in mine. Her skin is hot, too hot, but the moment we touch, something happens. A visible shudder runs through her body, and her breathing changes, deepens. “Zoe, can you hear me?”
Her eyelids flutter but don’t open. A small, pained sound escapes her.
“We need to cool her down,” Diego says, already heading for the bathroom. I hear water running a moment later.
Tristan sits on the edge of the bed, taking Zoe’s other hand. The moment he touches her, another shudder runs through her.
“What the hell is happening to her?” he asks, his voice tight with fear.
I don’t have an answer. My mind is a blank wasteland, the last remnants of the static wiped clean by the sheer, overwhelming terror of seeing her like this. She’s so still, so fragile. Nothing like the fierce, witty woman who challenged me in a dive bar, who kissed me in a parking lot, who took on my entire pack with nothing but a stubborn refusal to be intimidated.
“It’s the bond,” Dane says, his voice a low, grim rumble. He’s still kneeling by the bed, his large hand now resting on her ankle. “Something’s wrong with it.”
I know the words he doesn’t say. Rejection. The bond we forced on her in a moment of selfish, primal need.
“No,” I say, the word a harsh, guttural sound. “I won’t accept that.”
Diego returns from the bathroom, his arms full of wet washcloths. He gently places a cool cloth on her forehead, another on the back of her neck.
“We need to get her temperature down,” he says, his voice a low, soothing murmur, more for her benefit than ours. “And get fluids in her.”
I look around the small bedroom. We can’t treat her here. This place isn’t equipped. It’s not secure. We don’t have the resources.
“We’re moving her,” I say, the decision solidifying in my mind.
“Moving her where?” Tristan asks, his gaze never leaving Zoe’s pale face. “A hospital? The press will be all over it. PackTrackr will have a field day.”
“Not a hospital,” I say, already pulling out my phone, my fingers flying across the screen. “The clinic.”
They all look at me. The Sterling Clinic is not a public facility. It’s a private, state-of-the-art medical wing of Sterling Industries. It’s discreet, secure, and has the best doctors money can buy. But it’s a place we never use.
The Sterling Industries clinic is my father’s territory. The place he built. A place I swore I would never set foot in again.
But I look at Zoe, at her pale, still form, and I know, with a sick, hollow certainty, that there is no price I won’t pay. No humiliation I won’t endure. Not for her.
“I’m calling ahead,” I continue, already pulling out my phone. “Diego, find a water bottle. Tristan, pack her bag.” My gaze lands on Dane. “You’ve got her.”
Dane doesn’t need to be told twice. He slides his arms under her, lifting her from the bed as if she were made of glass. Zoemakes a small, whimpering sound in her sleep, her head lolling against his shoulder.
