The wind in Berlin had a bite to it that Manhattan never did, but I welcomed the cold. It felt clean. It felt like it was stripping away the layers of the person I used to be. It had been three months since I left the Silver Pack, three months since I severed the bond that tethered me to Jaxon. The phantom pain in my chest had dulled to a manageable ache, replaced by the steady, rhythmic beep of monitors in the Berlin Heart Research Center.

“Dr. Young,” Dr. Weber called out, his German accent thick and warm. “I have a patient I want you to take lead on. He is… difficult, but not in the way you might think.”

I smoothed the front of my white coat—a symbol of my own achievements, not a costume Jaxon had picked out. “What’s the case?”

“Trace Jensen. Twenty-six. Dilated cardiomyopathy. He’s on the transplant list, but his antibodies are high. He is resigned to the inevitable.”

I walked into Room 402 expecting a frail, bitter man. Instead, I found someone sitting by the window, bathed in the gray winter light, sketching in a leather-bound notebook. Trace Jensen was beautiful in a way that hurt to look at—sharp cheekbones, messy blonde hair, and a pallor that spoke of his failing heart.

He looked up as I entered, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners. There was no Alpha dominance in his gaze, no assessment of my breeding potential. Just curiosity.

“Another one?” he asked, his voice raspy but playful. “Dr. Weber sends in a new doctor every week to tell me to have hope. You’re too pretty to be the bearer of bad news.”

“I’m not here to sell you hope, Mr. Jensen,” I said, keeping my voice professional as I checked the monitors. “I’m here to monitor your output. I’m Dr. Young.”

“Dr. Young,” he tested the name. “You look like you’ve seen more ghosts than I have, and I’m the one with one foot in the grave.”

His observation startled me. For a second, my hand went to my chest, to Hadassah’s heart. “We focus on the living here, Trace.”

Over the next few weeks, Trace became the brightest part of my day. He didn’t treat me like a wolf, or an Omega, or a vessel. He treated me like a woman.

One afternoon, during a routine check of his blood pressure, I noticed his pen moving furiously across the page. He was staring at me, then back at the paper.

“What are you drawing?” I asked, wrapping the cuff around his arm.

He hesitated, then flipped the notebook around. The sketch was charcoal, stark and shadowed. It was me, but not the me I saw in the mirror. The woman in the drawing had a set jaw and eyes that burned with defiance. She looked like a survivor.

“Is that how you see me?” I whispered.

“That’s who you are,” Trace said softly. He closed the book. “You have a sadness, Talia. It’s deep. But underneath it, there’s this… ferocity. I envy it.”

I looked at him, really looked at him. “Why?”

“Because I’m terrified,” he admitted, the playful mask slipping. “I’ve spent my whole life waiting to die. I never learned how to fight for anything because I didn’t think I’d be around to keep it. But you… you look like you’ve fought a war and won.”

“I didn’t win,” I said, my voice trembling. “I just ran away. I was afraid of living as a ghost in someone else’s life.”

“Then don’t be a ghost,” he said, reaching out to cover my hand with his. His skin was cool, but his touch sent a jolt of warmth through me that had nothing to do with a mate bond. “Come out with me. Tonight.”

“Trace, you’re a patient. It’s against protocol.”

“I’m dying, Talia. Protocol is for people with time. Please. The Christmas market is open at Gendarmenmarkt. I want to see the lights one last time. I don’t want to see them alone.”

How could I say no to that?

The market was a sensory explosion. The scent of roasted almonds and Glühwein filled the crisp night air. Snow began to fall in large, lazy flakes, dusting the tops of the wooden stalls. Trace walked beside me, bundled in a thick wool coat, his breathing slightly labored but his smile genuine.

We stopped at a stall selling handmade scarves. I reached for a white one, out of habit. Jaxon always insisted on white.

“No,” Trace said, gently taking it from my hand. He reached for a deep, emerald green one. He wrapped it around my neck, his fingers brushing the sensitive skin of my throat. I didn't flinch. “This one. It brings out the gold in your eyes. It makes you look alive.”

He didn’t compare me to anyone. He didn’t mention a sister he never knew. He just saw me.

We bought two mugs of steaming spiced wine and stood near a massive Christmas tree, watching children ice skate nearby. The cold bit at my cheeks, but I felt warmer than I had in years.

“Thank you,” Trace said, turning to face me. The lights from the tree reflected in his eyes.

“For the wine?”

“For being real,” he said. “Everyone treats me like glass. You treat me like a man.”

He stepped closer. The space between us charged with an electricity that felt different from the Alpha command I was used to. It wasn’t demanding. It was asking.

“I know I don’t have much to offer,” he murmured, his breath forming a cloud between us. “My heart is failing, Talia. It’s a broken engine.”

“It beats,” I whispered, placing my hand over his chest, feeling the erratic but stubborn rhythm beneath his coat. “That’s enough.”

Trace leaned down, giving me every chance to pull away. I didn’t. When his lips brushed mine, it wasn’t a claim. It was a gift. It was soft, tasting of cinnamon and wine, and for the first time, the heart pounding in my chest didn’t feel like Hadassah’s. It felt entirely, wonderfully mine.

Peace was a sensation I was still learning to navigate. It was in the hum of the centrifuge, the scratch of Trace’s charcoal pencil against paper, and the sterile, clean scent of the Berlin lab. For the first time in my life, the air didn't smell like expectations or disappointment. It just smelled like oxygen.

Trace was sitting on a stool near the window, sketching the intricate glasswork of the beakers on my station. He looked pale today, the dark circles under his eyes stark against his skin, but when he looked up and caught me watching, his smile was effortless.

"You're staring, Dr. Young," he teased softly.

"I'm observing," I corrected, a small smile tugging at my lips. "It's scientific."

Then, the air changed.

It wasn't a sound. It was a shift in atmospheric pressure, a sudden heaviness that made the fine hairs on my arms stand up. The scent hit me a second later—ozone, pine, and the terrifying, suffocating musk of an enraged Alpha. My stomach dropped. The beaker I was holding slipped from my fingers, shattering in the sink.

Trace flinched, dropping his sketchbook. "Talia?"

I couldn't answer. I could only turn toward the double doors just as they were thrown open with enough force to crack the plaster.

Jaxon stood there.

He didn't look like the polished Wall Street tycoon I had left in Manhattan. His suit was wrinkled, his tie missing, and a dark stubble shadowed his jaw. His eyes were wild, flashing between human hazel and wolf gold. He looked like a man who hadn't slept in weeks, a man unravelling at the seams.

"Found you," he rasped, his voice dripping with an Alpha command that made my knees buckle instinctively. "I knew you couldn't hide forever."

The lab technicians froze. Dr. Weber stepped forward, confused. "Excuse me, sir, you cannot be in here—"

"Silence!" Jaxon roared, unleashing a wave of dominance that sent the human staff stumbling back in fear. He stalked toward me, ignoring everyone else. "I had to hire five different investigators to track your signature. Do you know how much trouble you've caused?"

I gripped the edge of the lab bench, forcing my spine to straighten. "Get out, Jaxon."

He stopped three feet from me, his nostrils flaring as he inhaled my scent. Then, his gaze snapped to Trace. He looked at the frail human man, then back at me, his face twisting in disgust.

"This is why you left?" Jaxon spat, pulling a crumpled photograph from his pocket and throwing it onto the counter. It was a picture of me and Trace at the Christmas market, laughing. "You run from your Alpha to play nursemaid to a corpse?"

"I ran from a husband who poisoned me," I said, my voice shaking but loud. "I ran from a marriage that was a graveyard."

"I did what was necessary to protect the pack!" Jaxon slammed his hand on the counter. "And you left me with that—that fraud. Capri lied, Talia. There was no baby. She faked the pregnancy to get the Luna title. The pack is in chaos. They sense the imbalance. They need their true Luna."

He reached for me, his fingers closing around my wrist. "You are coming home. Now."

"No," I said, yanking my arm back. The bond was gone, severed by my rejection, and his touch no longer sent sparks through me. It just felt cold. "I am not your Luna. I am not your wife."

"You carry her heart!" Jaxon screamed, the veneer of sanity finally cracking. He pointed a trembling finger at my chest. "That heart belongs to me. It belongs to the Silver Pack. As long as it beats inside you, you are my property, Talia. You are nothing but the vessel that keeps Hadassah alive for me."

The words hung in the silence, cruel and absolute. But they didn't cut me like they used to. They just clarified everything.

I stepped closer to him, my own anger rising, hot and fierce. "Look at me, Jaxon. Look at my eyes. This heart pumps my blood. It keeps me alive. It is mine now. Hadassah is dead. And if you keep chasing a ghost, you’re going to die alone."

Jaxon looked stunned, as if the furniture had suddenly started speaking. He growled, a low, dangerous sound, and lunged forward.

"Hey!" Trace moved. It was a blur of motion I didn't expect. He shoved himself between us, his frail hands pushing against Jaxon's chest. "She said no. Leave her alone."

Jaxon looked down at Trace with pure incredulity. "Get out of my way, human, before I snap you in half."

"You'll have to," Trace wheezed, standing his ground even as his legs trembled. "Because you're not touching her."

Before Jaxon could strike, the security team Dr. Weber had silently summoned burst in. Four large men, carrying tasers. In Germany, supernatural laws were strict; an aggressive Alpha in a human medical facility was a serious offense.

"Mr. Morgan," the head of security barked. "Leave. Now. Or we will neutralize you."

Jaxon looked at the guards, then at me. His chest heaved. He realized he was outnumbered, out of his jurisdiction. He straightened his jacket, regaining a shred of his composure, though his eyes remained manic.

"This isn't over, Talia," he hissed, backing away. "You think you can just replace me? Replace us? That heart has an expiration date without its mate. You'll see."

He turned and stormed out, the doors swinging shut behind him.

The silence that followed was deafening. My heart hammered against my ribs—my heart, I reminded myself. Mine.

"Trace," I breathed, turning to him. "Trace, are you—"

Trace was clutching the edge of the counter, his knuckles white. His face had gone a terrifying shade of gray. He looked at me, his blue eyes wide and panicked, and opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out.

"Trace!" I screamed as his knees gave way.

I caught him before he hit the floor, but just barely. He was dead weight in my arms. His skin was clammy, cold sweat beading on his forehead.

"Code Blue!" Dr. Weber shouted, rushing over. "Get a gurney! Now!"

"Trace, look at me," I begged, slapping his cheek lightly. "Stay with me. Please, stay with me."

His eyes rolled back, his breathing shallow and rattling. The confrontation, the Alpha pressure, the physical exertion of standing up to a monster—it was too much.

We ran alongside the gurney as they wheeled him into the ICU. The rhythmic beeping of the monitors was erratic, a chaotic staccato that mirrored the panic rising in my throat. They pushed me back at the double doors. Protocol.

I stood there for an hour, staring at the frosted glass, my hands pressed against my chest. Jaxon was right about one thing: death was always chasing us.

When Dr. Weber finally emerged, he pulled his mask down. His expression was grave.

"Talia," he said softly. "His heart... it has decompensated rapidly. The stress caused a massive arrhythmia event."

"Stabilize him," I pleaded, grabbing the doctor's arm. "Just stabilize him, and we can adjust the meds."

Dr. Weber shook his head slowly. "Medication will no longer suffice. His heart is failing, Talia. It is done fighting. He needs a transplant immediately. We have maybe... maybe two weeks. If we don't find a donor by then, he will die."

I sank onto the waiting room chair, burying my face in my hands. I had escaped a man who wanted my heart for a ghost, only to fall in love with a man who needed a heart to live. The irony tasted like blood in my mouth.