The other alphas joined the fray. Theo’s massive gray wolf materialized at Cal’s flank, driving Magnus toward the wall.Leo’s lion—sleek and deadly—circled behind, cutting off retreat. Even Wyatt had shifted, his black panther form silent and lethal in the chaos.
Four shifters against one. Magnus didn’t stand a chance.
Someone was screaming. It might have been the council representatives calling for order. It might have been Magnus’s witnesses trying to flee. Dahlia couldn’t tell anymore. Sound was getting fuzzy, like she was hearing everything through water.
The marble beneath her was cool. That was nice. She was so hot—burning up from the inside, fever-bright while her blood painted abstract patterns on ancient stone.
She thought about her grandmother. About Hazel Moon, who had built a bakery on the foundation of making people feel better. Hazel would have been proud of her today. Proud that Dahlia had used her magic to expose a monster, to protect people, to fight for what was right.
Hazel would have been less proud about the bleeding-out part.
Hands pressed against her wounds. Human hands. The witch elder, kneeling in Dahlia’s spreading blood, magic crackling around her fingertips as she tried to stem the bleeding.
“Stay awake, child.” The elder’s voice was sharp with command. “Don’t you dare close your eyes.”
“Trying,” Dahlia mumbled. Her lips felt numb. Her whole body felt numb. “The hearing. Did we win?”
“The ruling stands,” the elder said, her voice carrying the weight of official record even through the blood and chaos. “Ursa boundaries confirmed. Ward anchors secured. Ironwood’s claims are void.” Her hands pressed harder against Dahlia’s wounds. “Now stay with me.”
The sounds of battle faded. Abrupt silence, then the heavy thud of a body hitting the floor. Dahlia tried to turn her head—tried to see if Cal was okay—but the world was going gray at the edges.
Then Cal was there.
Human again, naked and bloodied, dropping to his knees beside her with an expression that cracked her heart wide open. He gathered her into his arms despite the elder’s protests, cradling her against his bare skin like he could hold her to life through will alone.
She could feel his hands on her—pressing against her wounds, shaking, desperate. Could feel his body against the spreading cold of her own, could feel his heartbeat thundering where her face pressed against his bare torso.
“Stay with me.” His voice cracked. “Dahlia. Stay with me.”
She tried to focus on his face. He was so handsome, even covered in blood. Even with tears tracking through the gore on his cheeks. Had she ever told him that? She should have told him that. Should have told him so many things.
“You called me Dahlia.” Her voice came out as a whisper, barely audible. “You never... use my name...”
“I’ll use it every day if you stay with me. Every hour. Every minute. Don’t leave me.”
“Paris,” she mumbled. “We were supposed to go to Paris. You promised.”
“We will. I promise. Dahlia, I promise, hold on.” His voice broke completely, raw and torn apart. “I love you. Do you hear me? I love you, and I am not losing you like this.”
Love. He loved her.
Last night, tangled in her sheets, she’d wondered if what she felt was too fast, too intense, too much. She’d wonderedif wanting him this badly made her foolish. Now, bleeding out on a marble floor, she realized she’d been asking the wrong questions.
The right question was: what would she give to have more time?
Everything. The answer was everything.
She tried to say it back. Tried to tell him that she loved him too, that she’d loved him since he crashed into her storeroom in bear form and let her feed him honey, that he made her feel seen in a way no one else ever had. That he was the first person to ask what she wanted instead of what she could give.
But her mouth wouldn’t form the words. The gray was spreading, narrowing her vision to a tunnel with Cal’s face at the end.
“Healers are coming,” someone said. Theo, maybe. His voice was rough—he’d shifted back to human. “Two minutes out.”
“She doesn’t have two minutes.” The witch elder’s voice was grim. “The wounds are too deep. I can slow the bleeding, but I can’t stop it. His claws carried rage-magic. It’s fighting my healing.”
Cal made a sound—between a snarl and a sob. His arms tightened around her, pulling her closer, as if he could shield her from death with his own body.
“You don’t get to die,” he whispered against her hair. “Not now. Not when I found you. Fight, Dahlia. Please. Fight for me. Fight for us.”
