The fever broke on the fourth day.

I woke to sunlight streaming through unfamiliar windows, warm on my face. My body ached, but it was a clean pain. Not the poisoned agony I'd lived with for seven years.

Malcolm sat in a chair beside the bed, his head tilted back against the wall, eyes closed. Dark circles shadowed his face. His shirt was wrinkled, like he'd been wearing it for days.

"Why?" My voice came out rough as gravel.

His eyes opened. Silver-gray, like storm clouds. "You're awake."

"Why did you save me?" I pushed myself up on one elbow. The IV tugged at my arm. "You don't know me."

Something flickered across his face. Pain, maybe. Or regret.

"I do know you." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "I was Luna's foster brother."

The world stopped.

"Luna." Her name hurt to say. "My sister."

"She made me promise to protect you. Before she—" He stopped. Swallowed. "Before she died. She knew what Jonah was. What he'd do to you if he got the chance."

I stared at him. At this stranger who'd carried me out of hell.

"There's more." His voice went quieter. "You're my fated mate, Halle. I've known for years."

The words didn't make sense. Couldn't make sense.

"Then why—" My throat closed. "Why did you let me stay with him?"

"Because you looked happy." The words came out raw. "Every time I saw you at pack gatherings, you were smiling. Jonah's hand on your shoulder, and you were smiling. I thought—" He stopped. Started again. "I thought you'd chosen him. That you were content. And I had no right to interfere with that."

I wanted to laugh. Or scream. Or both.

"I wasn't happy. I was dying."

"I know that now." His hands clenched into fists. "And I'll regret not acting sooner for the rest of my life."

Silence stretched between us. Outside, birds sang. Normal sounds in a world that felt anything but.

"Jonah never gave me a choice," I said finally. "He took everything. My wolf. My legs. My future. He owned me."

"No one owns you." Malcolm's voice was fierce. "Not him. Not me. Not anyone."

I looked at him. Really looked. At the exhaustion in his face, the careful distance he kept between us. The way he'd sat in that chair for days, watching over me, never once touching me without permission.

Jonah would've climbed into the bed. Would've claimed it was his right.

Malcolm stayed in the chair.

"Thank you," I whispered.

He nodded. Didn't say anything else. Didn't need to.

***

A week later, I woke to pins and needles in my toes.

At first, I thought I was imagining it. Seven years of nothing, and suddenly—sensation. Tingling. Real and undeniable.

I wiggled my toes.

They moved.

I sat up so fast the room spun. Threw back the blankets. Stared at my legs like they belonged to someone else.

"Malcolm!" My voice cracked. "Malcolm!"

He burst through the door, eyes wild. "What's wrong?"

"My legs." I couldn't stop staring. "I can feel them."

He went very still. Then he moved to the bed, knelt beside it. "Show me."

I flexed my foot. Just a small movement, but it was there. Real.

Malcolm's hand covered his mouth. His eyes were bright.

"Seven years," I said. The words tasted like ash and fury. "He stole seven years from me. Not the attack. Not some tragic accident. Him. He did this."

The grief I'd been carrying transformed. Hardened into something cold and sharp.

"I'm going to destroy him," I said quietly. "Not just expose him. Not just see him punished. I'm going to take everything he has and burn it to the ground."

Malcolm looked at me. Didn't flinch. Didn't tell me to be reasonable or merciful.

"I'll help," he said simply.

***

The physical therapy started the next day.

Malcolm had converted a room in the lodge into a training space. Mats on the floor, weights along the wall. It smelled like sweat and determination.

"We'll start slow," he said. "Your muscles have atrophied. It's going to hurt."

It did.

Every movement was agony. My legs shook trying to support my weight. I fell more times than I could count.

But I got back up.

Two weeks in, Malcolm suggested light sparring.

"Just defensive moves," he said. "I'll go slow."

We circled each other on the mat. He threw a punch, telegraphed and gentle. I blocked it. Threw one back. He dodged.

We moved through the forms. Muscle memory returning, even after seven years.

Then I overextended. My weak leg buckled.

I went down hard.

Malcolm's hand shot out, reaching for me.

I flinched. Couldn't help it. Jonah's hands, gripping too tight. Jonah's touch, always taking.

Malcolm froze. Then he dropped to his knees, putting himself below me. Vulnerable.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I should've asked first."

I stared at him. At this powerful Alpha, kneeling on the mat, giving me all the power.

Jonah never knelt. Never asked. Never gave.

"Help me up?" My voice shook.

Malcolm held out his hand. Palm up. Waiting.

I took it.

His grip was firm but gentle. He pulled me to my feet, then immediately let go.

"Again?" he asked.

I nodded.

We started over. And this time, when I stumbled, I didn't flinch when he caught me.

The alarm went off at three in the morning.

Not the lodge's security system. Something older. Malcolm's wolf, howling a warning through the pack bond that made every hair on my arms stand up.

I was out of bed before I fully woke, grabbing the bow Malcolm had given me last week. My legs held. Steady. Strong.

Footsteps in the hallway. Malcolm appeared, already dressed, eyes glowing silver in the darkness.

"How many?" I asked.

"Six. Maybe seven." His voice was calm, but his hands were shifting, claws extending. "Rogues. Professional."

Professional meant hired. Hired meant Jonah.

"Where?"

"East perimeter. Heading for the safe house."

The safe house. Where three wolfless she-wolves and their children were sleeping.

I was moving before he finished speaking.

"Halle—"

"I'm not hiding." I nocked an arrow, muscle memory taking over. "Not anymore."

He looked at me. Something fierce and proud flashed across his face.

"Stay behind me," he said.

We ran.

The forest was dark, but my eyes adjusted fast. Faster than they should have. My wolf, still dormant, lending me her senses. I felt her there, just beneath my skin, waiting.

The safe house came into view. A small cabin, lights off, surrounded by trees.

And shadows. Moving shadows with glowing eyes.

Malcolm's growl rumbled through the clearing. The shadows froze.

Then they attacked.

Malcolm shifted mid-leap, his massive silver-black wolf tearing into the first rogue. I raised my bow, tracking movement, waiting for a clear shot.

There. A rogue breaking away from the pack, heading for the cabin's back entrance.

I released.

The arrow caught him in the shoulder. He stumbled, snarled, kept moving.

I ran after him.

My legs burned, but they held. I was faster than I'd been in seven years, stronger, and the rage that had been building since I saw that logbook was a living thing inside me.

The rogue reached the door. Started to break it down.

I tackled him.

We went down hard, rolling across the ground. He was bigger, heavier, but I'd trained for this. Years ago, when I was whole.

I wasn't whole now. But I was close enough.

He threw me off. I hit a tree, pain exploding through my back. He lunged, claws extended, going for my throat.

I grabbed the knife from my belt and drove it up.

It caught him under the ribs. He made a choking sound, eyes going wide.

Then he collapsed.

I shoved him off me, gasping. Blood covered my hands. His blood.

Behind me, the sounds of fighting faded. Malcolm's howl, victorious and fierce.

I looked down at the dead rogue.

And saw the dagger on his belt.

Silver. Ornate. With a crest etched into the hilt.

A crest I'd seen before. Seven years ago, in the evidence photos from Luna's death.

My hands shook as I pulled it free.

***

Malcolm found me sitting beside the body, the dagger in my lap.

"Halle." He was human again, pulling on a shirt someone had brought. "Are you hurt?"

I held up the dagger.

He went very still.

"That's—"

"Luna's killers." My voice came out flat. Dead. "Same crest. Same design."

He knelt beside me, took the dagger carefully. Turned it over in his hands.

"We need to search him," he said quietly.

We did.

The rogue had a phone. Encrypted, but Malcolm's tech specialist cracked it in under an hour.

Payment records. Wire transfers from a shell company. I didn't recognize the name, but Malcolm did.

"Armstrong Holdings," he said, his voice tight. "Jonah's private account."

More digging. More files.

And then we found it.

Emails. Seven years old. Jonah's personal address to a contact listed only as "V."

*The Luna knows about the funds. She's threatening to go to the Council. Handle it. Make it look like a rogue attack.*

The response: *Understood. It will be done.*

I stared at the screen. At proof that Jonah had ordered my sister's death.

"He killed her," I whispered. "Luna found out he was stealing from the pack, and he killed her."

Malcolm's hand found mine. Squeezed.

"We have him," he said. "This is enough for the Council. Enough to—"

His phone buzzed.

He looked at the screen. His expression went dark.

"What?"

He turned the phone so I could see.

An official summons from the Lycan Council. Jonah had filed a formal complaint, claiming Malcolm had kidnapped his mate and was holding me against my will.

And more. A declaration of intent to hold a Mating Confirmation Ceremony at the Great Gathering in three days.

"He's going to use a proxy," Malcolm said. "Claim you're too ill to attend and have someone stand in your place. Once the ceremony's complete, you'll be legally bound to him. Even without the mark."

"Can he do that?"

"If you don't show up to contest it." Malcolm's jaw was tight. "It's an old law. Rarely used. But legal."

I looked at the dagger. At the emails. At seven years of lies and poison and death.

Jonah thought I was broken. Thought I'd hide here, too afraid to face him.

He was wrong.

"Then I'll be there," I said.

Malcolm looked at me. "Halle—"

"I'll be there," I repeated. "And I'm going to end this."

His eyes searched mine. Then he nodded.

"We'll go together," he said.

I stood. My legs were steady. My hands didn't shake.

For the first time in seven years, I felt like myself.

"Three days," I said. "That's all he has left."