Before I can turn, a rough cloth slams over my mouth and nose, pressed so hard it pulls at my upper lip, pinching me. My breath bounces back into my own face as a large arm wraps around my middle.
Shock pins me for one brutal second.
Then instinct takes over.
I try to twist, claw, shove, every muscle firing at once. A sound tears up my throat, but it dies muffled under the fabric. I try to bite and hit, but the grip on me is iron-tight, keeping me in place.
I suck in a frantic breath through the rag, and a chemical sweetness floods my lungs. The edges of my vision smear, and the alley tilts. My stomach clenches with a sick roll that makes my knees threaten to fold.
I swing my elbow back, but the movement is slow—too slow. My arms feel suddenly distant and heavy, like they’ve been filled with wet sand. My fingers scrape uselessly at the hand clamped over my mouth, at a sleeve, then at a muscular arm.
The alpha scent surges again, intense and suffocating, and my body remembers before my mind can argue. Vicious memories slot into place like teeth in a trap, as I’m reminded what it feels like to have no control.
Suddenly, I’m small.
Powerless.
A terrified child all over again.
Early the Next Morning
Warren
The kitchenin this house is obscene.
Not in a fun way, but more like: “we paid more for this marble than my first house”way. Everything is polished and intentional. Deep walnut cabinets, matte-black hardware, and a range big enough to cook for an army. Warm pendant lights cast a soft gold over surfaces that never seem to hold fingerprints.
We’ve lived here for months, but the space still sits wrong under my skin. Too curated. Too clean. Like we bought someone else’s life and haven’t quite grown into it.
I wipe down a countertop that’s already spotless. Then wipe it again. My hands need something to do.
Off the kitchen, in the dining room, Dr. Pace clears his throat.
I go still, cloth clenched tight in my fist.
The kitchen opens directly into the dining roomthrough an oversized archway. There are no doors, nothing to buffer sound. The design choice feels “expansive” or at least that’s what the realtor said when she walked us through it.
Right now, it makes it impossiblenotto hear every little thing happening in there.
“Hold still, Mr. Vexler,” the doctor says softly.
I inch closer to the arch, shoulder brushing the frame as I lean in far enough to see.
Cassian sits at the head of the long dining table, with his injured knee stretched out in front of him, rigid and wrong.
He looks like hell.
His usually pale blue eyes look dark, and his salt and pepper hair is slicked flat against his sweaty forehead. He’s propped back in the chair like the wood is doing more work than he is, with strain etched around his eyes.
Dr. Pace stands beside the pack alpha, glasses low on his nose as he inspects Cass’s knee with practiced, clinical hands. Beck hovers near Cass’s shoulder like a frightened cat, quick to startle. He’s looking so thin lately, his wavy hair a disorderly mess that only gets worse every time he drags a shaking hand through it. Seeing it makes me smooth my own straight blond hair back, an automatic correction, something to anchor myself.
Grason is here too, leaning against the far wall, arms crossed over his chest, a silent pillar taking up half the room. His eyes track every movement the doctor makes, every breath Cass takes. When he notices me watching him, his gaze lifts.
We exchange a look.
It’s short, quiet, and filled with fear. A shared understanding neither of us wants to voice: Our alpha is hurting. And we’re helpless to stop it.
Cassian inhales sharply as Dr. Pace presses along the swollen edge of his knee, then the doctor shoves a needle deep into the inflamed skin.
