“No,” she said. “Aaron, no.”
“It’ll be soon. Maybe five minutes, maybe a little longer given how hard he’s fighting.”
“Then why did you send Ezra away?”
“If there’s any chance I’m wrong—if he’s strong enough to survive nine gunshot wounds through multiple vital organs with no treatment but field medicine—I can’t let their scents overwhelm him. And maybe they wouldn’t. I just—I have to make the call as the medic, and I can’t risk it.”
It almost made sense. Almost.
Then everything they’d been saying in the last few minutes, everything that had happened since she awoke to the voices on the walkie-talkie—it all hit her at once. Malachi was dying. Now. Lying helpless in front of her, his wounded body quivering under her hands, his eyes open but unfocused, Malachi would die in a few minutes. He wouldn’t be here anymore—leading and serving his pack; carrying Flannery around the house in one palm; lifting Gigi onto his shoulders; grilling delicious burgers; rumbling from his chest every time something angered, intrigued, touched, or amused him. Talking with April late in the evenings and slowly getting to know her, letting her get to know him.
He would be gone. This powerful body would be only a shell.
April’s soul shuddered with a silent wail. No, no, no. Malachi must live. There must be something they were missing, something to save him.
Certainty like wildfire spread through her body, from her chest outward all the way to her toes and fingers. She knew what he needed. Aaron was right: no one could save Malachi’s life. No one but Malachi. She kept pressure on his wounds and leaned over his body, brought her face close to his, and spoke quietly to him.
“Malachi, it’s April.”
A blink. It was the only sign he heard her. She hadn’t thought he could. She had kept her fear for him at bay, kept functioning, as long as she didn’t look into his amber eyes and see death stealing him.
Now she looked. He was gray around the lips; his expression was completely blank. Yes, death was coming for her wolf. Barreling down on him. About to snatch him. But then his eyes focused on her.
“Wolves heal under the full moon,” she said. “As they change, any injuries heal and turn into scars.”
Aaron said, “The full moon’s not for twenty-three days.”
She held Malachi’s pain-fogged gaze. “You don’t need the full moon, Malachi. We both know this.”
Aaron’s breath caught.
April didn’t spare him a glance. She kept eye contact with Malachi. “Stop squashing your wolf. Let him out. Let him heal you.”
Malachi’s hand lifted from his side and covered hers as she continued to press blood-soaked gauze to his wounds. His lips barely moved, and his rasp came barely loud enough for her to hear. “April.”
“I’m here. I’m staying with you. But you don’t have to die. Let him out.”
Malachi’s back arched. His whole body gave a single mighty heave up from the table, then fell back again. The shallow panting grew stuttered and strained. He was still reining in, controlling…and then she sawhim. Little Malachi. Huddling deep within the alpha’s massive frame. Knocking on a locked closet door and promising…promising he hadn’t become a wolf.
“Baby, please. That’s an old promise, an unfair promise. It’s time to break it.”
“I…can’t.”
“You can. Please.”
His eyes closed, and Aaron gave the soft whine of an injured dog. April let go of the gauze. Instead she grabbed hold of Malachi’s cool hand and pressed her cheek to his. His face too was cool, body heat ebbing away as death curled its fingers around him. April whispered in his ear. She hoped she whispered to his strong good heart.
“You are my wolf. I’m your mate. Don’t leave your mate alone, Malachi. Please.”
A long moment passed, and then his hand seemed to spasm in hers, gripping so hard her bones nearly cracked. She gripped back. Then she had to let go as his body began convulsing on the table, and Aaron drew her into a corner to shield her.
“I saw this happen to him once before,” he said. “It’s like he’s about to…but he can’t.”
“He can,” April said.
With a final thrash, Malachi turned onto his side and stretched his arms and legs out in front of him, the pose of a slumbering canine. The gauze had fallen away while he struggled, exposing his awful wounds. He was barely breathing.
He was Malachi, and then…in a few seconds, he was something else. Golden fur covered his body. His clothes had been mostly cut away; now they shredded off him, and his tennis shoes split away from his feet as they and his hands became paws. A huge wolf now lay on the table, and the wolf wasn’t bleeding. Its eyes were closed, its breathing labored.
