Elizebeth POV:

"No anesthesia," the Oracle rasped from the corner. A shriveled hag Jaylah kept on payroll. "Chemicals taint the magic."

Floyd nodded. "Do it."

The nurse approached. The needle was thick, designed for rapid extraction. The tip was dull gray.

Silver-coated alloy. To keep the wound from healing too fast.

"No," I gasped. "Not silver."

The needle pierced my skin.

A scream tore from my throat. It felt like liquid fire injected directly into the marrow. The silver seared the entry point, cauterizing and burning simultaneously.

My body convulsed against the straps.

"Hold her still!" Floyd barked.

He didn't hold my hand. He pinned my shoulder, his weight crushing me into the mattress so they could drain me dry.

I watched the bag fill. Crimson. My life.

The room spun. Black spots danced in my vision. My heart fluttered—a bird dying in a cage.

"That's enough," the Healer said, his voice underwater. "She's going into shock."

"Is Mara stable?" Floyd asked.

"Yes."

Floyd released me instantly. He didn't check the wound. He turned his back and went to comfort Jaylah, releasing his pheromones—cedar and musk.

That scent was biologically mine. And he was using it to soothe the woman who wanted me dead.

The nurse unstrapped me. "You can go," she muttered, avoiding my eyes.

I tried to sit up. The world tilted. I hit the floor.

"Get up," Floyd said, annoyed. "Stop acting."

I couldn't.

"She's cluttering the room," Jaylah complained.

Floyd looked at me with pure disgust. "Guard. Take her to the old isolation ward. Don't let her die in the hallway; it looks bad for the image."

Two warriors dragged me out.

They threw me into a disused cell at the end of the dark wing. It smelled of rust and old fear.

I lay on the dusty mattress, shivering. The silver burn in my arm throbbed.

In the silence, something shifted.

For five years, I had loved him. But as the cold seeped into my bones, that love didn't fade. It curdled.

I didn't love Floyd Meyers anymore. I hated him.

Elizebeth POV:

I woke to the creak of the door.

Floyd loomed over me, a shadow made of muscle and malice.

"The pack has been suffering bad luck," he said. "The Oracle says the Ancestral Totem is displeased. It has cracked."

My stomach dropped. I had carved that totem. Floyd and I, back at the Academy. I had poured my White Wolf magic into it.

"Fix it," Floyd said.

"I can't," I held up my shaking hands. "I have no tools."

"Find a way."

He threw a photo on the bed.

Sunny. My twelve-year-old golden retriever. The only living thing that didn't look at me with contempt.

"Sunny is in the kennels," Floyd said. "The warriors are bored. They've been asking for a live target."

"No!" I scrambled up. "He's harmless!"

"Then fix the totem." He leaned in. "And I know where your mother is hiding in the East Sector slums. Shame if Rogues found her."

Tears streamed down my face. Monster.

"I'll do it."

He kicked a heavy sack of broken stone toward me. "Dawn. Or the dog dies."

He locked me in.

I dumped the sack. The obsidian and moonstone were shattered. No glue. No resin.

I picked up two shards. They were razor-sharp. As I pressed them together, the stone sliced my thumb.

A drop of blood hit the rock. Hiss. A faint red light pulsed.

White Wolf blood. A binding agent stronger than epoxy.

I realized what I had to do.

I picked up the next piece. I deliberately sliced my finger against the edge, smearing the blood on the joint. It fused instantly.

Piece by piece. Cut by cut.

My hands were soon a web of lacerations. The pain was blinding, mixing with the dizziness from the blood draw. But I kept going. For Sunny. For Mom.

By the time the moon set, the totem stood whole. But it wasn't black anymore. Veins of crimson ran through it, pulsing like a heartbeat.

I slumped against the wall, cradling my mangled hands.

I had saved them. But looking at the blood-streaked statue, I felt a chill. I had poured my blood into a symbol of our union. I hadn't just fixed it. I had cursed us both.