Anne starts to head toward her bedroom. “I’ll get dressed.”
Darius waits till we’re ready, then we pile into his car.
The medical center is in the center of pack territory, a modern facility that smells of antiseptics and herbs. Darius leads us through the back door to a private examination room where three researchers are waiting—two women and a man, all wearing white coats and eager expressions.
“Alpha Darius.” The older woman greets him before her eyes land on me. “And you must be our patient. Please, sit.”
I sit on the examination table, my body stiffening despite my best efforts to appear calm. Anne positions herself near the door, arms crossed, watching.
They start with basic vitals—blood pressure, heart rate, temperature. Standard stuff. But when they pull out the blood draw kit, my hands clench into fists.
“Just a few vials,” the male researcher says gently. “We need to analyze how the medicine affected the poison in your system.”
I force myself to nod, to extend my arm, and not to flinch when the needle slides in.
Anne’s eyes are on me. I can sense the concern she’s trying to hide behind that neutral expression.
They fill four vials with my blood, labeling each one carefully. They run their tests while I sit there, and I watch as they point at something on a tablet with confused expressions, exchanging hushed whispers. They glance back at me, then whisper some more.
Should I be worried?
One researcher continues working on the blood, and the other two come back over to me for more tests—reflex checks, strength assessments, and examining the scars on my wrists and back.
Four hours pass with me being pricked and prodded.
“Fascinating,” the younger woman murmurs, making notes. “The healing acceleration is remarkable. Cuts are closing right as they’re being made.”
“And the poison?” Darius asks. “Did your medicine work to counteract it?”
The three researchers exchange glances.
“That’s the interesting part,” the older woman says slowly. She pulls up something on a tablet and shows it to Darius. “According to our analysis, he was never poisoned.”
The words don’t register at first. They don’t make sense.
“What do you mean?” Darius’s voice sharpens, his eyes cutting to me with suspicion.
“Wait—” I start, but the male researcher continues.
“The state of his body is…severe,” he says carefully. “Significant damage, evidence of long-term trauma. But it’s not from poison. Not in the traditional sense.”
“Then what?” Darius demands.
The older woman taps her tablet, pulling up a molecular diagram. “We found trace amounts of a synthetic compound in his system. After running it through our database, we identified it as a designer drug—highly addictive, with some very specific properties.”
My heart is pounding now, blood rushing in my ears.
“The drug itself has minimal active effects,” she continues. “But when an addict misses their regular dose, the withdrawal symptoms are catastrophic. Fever, pain, nausea, organ failure. The body essentially attacks itself, convinced it’s dying.”
“And in some cases,” the younger woman adds quietly, “it does die. The withdrawal can be fatal if left untreated.”
The room spins.
Not poison. An addiction.
Another lie. Another manipulation. Another way they controlled us, made us believe we were on a leash, when really, what they’d done was condition our bodies to need them.
Anne’s voice cuts through the roaring in my ears. “You didn’t know.” It’s not a question.
