Leah's POV
I jolted awake, my eyes snapping open to a world that spun like a butcher's blade. My forehead pressed hard against the wall, the cold stone biting into my skin, grounding me as nausea clawed up my throat. Sweat slicked my scarred flesh - marks from a past I couldn't outrun, etched deep from the slave market's chains. The air hung heavy, thick with the scent of metal and earth, and I sucked in a ragged breath, trying to steady the hammering in my chest.
"Mrs. Winters, are you okay?" Ryan's voice cut through the haze, sharp with worry, slithering up behind me like a shadow I couldn't shake.
I waved a hand, the motion weak and trembling, a pitiful dismissal. "I'm fine," I rasped, the lie tasting bitter on my tongue. "Just a little dizzy. I need to find a place to rest. I need water." My voice cracked, raw and reluctant, mirroring the shiver I'd once faked for Lycidas, the Lycan Prince who'd stripped me bare with his gaze.
A flurry of exclamation marks erupted across my retina screen, Seth's virtual presence flickering like a frantic pulse. Boss, what happened to you? Do you want to abort this mission and come back immediately? I can arrange a chopper, like, in five minutes. His words glared at me, insistent, but I shook my head, the movement sending the room tilting again. The next full moon loomed close, its bloody light already clawing at my mind. I had to unravel Finn's conspiracy before I could track down Lucas - my last shot at piercing the veil of this so-called Game of Gods. I needed to see the two resurrected steppenwolves with my own eyes, to know if the truth was as hollow as I feared.
I scanned the dimness, my gaze snagging on a bench a few paces away. My legs wobbled as I staggered toward it, collapsing onto the splintered wood with a groan. My body felt soft, useless, drained to the marrow by the Moon Goddess's fleeting visitation. She'd loomed in my mind moments ago, all silver wrath and cryptic whispers, leaving me a husk slumped against the wall.
Ryan spoke again, his tone gentler now, laced with a care that prickled my skin. "Mrs. Winters, you can rest here for a while. I'll have the doctor come and check you immediately."
The word doctor sank its teeth into me, and I flinched, my voice sharp as I snapped, "No," I forced my eyes to meet his, feigning steadiness. "It's just hypoglycemia. I'll be fine after sitting for a while."
He frowned, his brow creasing like cracked earth, unconvinced. "Are you sure? You seem to be in pain."
"It's okay," I insisted, the words a brittle shield. "This is an old problem of mine. I just need to rest." My hands clenched in my lap.
Ryan nodded, though doubt lingered in his eyes. "There's still a long way to go from here to the observation area of Romulus and Remus," he said, his voice steady, practical. "I'll arrange a shuttle bus for you later. This might make it more convenient for you to visit." He waved to some faceless staff lurking in the shadows, barking orders I barely heard. But the shuttle didn't come, and the dizziness swelled, a tide pulling me under. I gripped the bench, my knuckles whitening, but I couldn't keep myself steady against the wall.
Just as the edges of my vision blackened, threatening to swallow me whole, Ryan dropped beside me. His hand clamped onto my arm, firm and unyielding, anchoring me to the world. In that instant, his aura crashed over me - wild, intoxicating, a pheromone scent that sank claws into my senses. It wasn't human, not entirely. Werewolves could smell it, taste it, the unique blend each soul exhaled, and Ryan's was a storm I couldn't escape.
The courtyard shifted around me, no longer cold stone but an indoor haven of towering plants, their leaves casting jagged shadows. Sunlight spilled through, warm and mocking, brushing my skin as a breeze carried the scent of flowers and earth. Mingled with Ryan's pheromones, it wove a spell, mysterious and suffocating. Humans were blind to their own essence, but for me, it was a blade - some scents rancid, driving us from their cities. I'd lost so much of my senses over the years, dulled by pain and time, but Ryan's breath hit me like a fist, fascinating and fierce.
I kept my face a mask, honed from years of bowing to beasts like Lycidas. No ripple betrayed the heat coiling in my gut. Seth, ever-watchful, flashed Ryan's resume onto my retina glasses - Marine Corps, a soldier's past. My mind conjured him in uniform, muscle taut beneath fabric, and a fever flushed through me, sharp and unwanted. I shook my head, desperate to banish the image, but then it struck - morning sickness, vicious and sudden.
I clapped a hand over my mouth, lurching to my feet and stumbling toward a massive indoor plant. I braced against the rough bark, retching, my body betraying me as it had so many times before. When I straightened, panting, Ryan was there, his fingers brushing my hair back with a tenderness that stung. "Thank you," I muttered, shame burning my cheeks.
"You're welcome, Mrs. Winters," he said, pressing a handkerchief and a bottle of water into my trembling hands. A handkerchief - here, now, in this age of sterile tech. It jarred me, a relic from a softer time, carried by a man who shouldn't have cared.
I rinsed my mouth, the water cool against the bile, and wiped my lips with the cloth, my fingers tracing the embroidered initials: RS. Dense stitches, meticulous, hand-sewn - by a woman, I knew it in my bones. I glanced at Ryan, my voice steady despite the churn within. "You may sit down."
He blinked, startled, then settled beside me, his presence a quiet weight. The courtyard bloomed around us, birdsong threading through the air, flowers heavy with fragrance, tall plants shielding us from the world. Every inch of my skin drank in the scent of peace, a comfort I hadn't felt since the market's filth. Ryan stayed silent, considerate, and even Seth held his tongue, leaving me to the stillness.
After a stretch of quiet, Ryan's voice broke through, soft and shadowed. "My wife was also like this when she was pregnant, with severe morning sickness."
I tightened my grip on the handkerchief, the fabric biting into my palm. "Is that why you always carry this?" I asked, my tone edged with a dare. "Just in case a pregnant woman vomits?"
He chuckled, but his face darkened, sadness pooling in his eyes. "The reason I have this handkerchief is because it reminds me of my deceased wife."
I stared at him, shock splintering through me, and he offered a faint smile, brittle as glass. "It's nothing. My wife has been dead for many years. She passed away before she could give birth to our child."
The words landed like a lash, and I swallowed hard. "Have you ever thought about using our technology to resurrect her?" I pressed, my voice trembling with something I couldn't name.
He shook his head, firm, unyielding. "Never. Saying goodbye to her was the most painful experience of my life. I can't imagine going through it again, whether I can still make it through. I don't want to, no matter what."
"But before she leaves again," I countered, desperation creeping in, "you'd have years of good time with the person you love."
"Even if I used DNA technology to resurrect her," he said, his voice low, cutting, "even if her appearance was the same, she wouldn't be her. She'd have no memory of my wife. She'd be a stranger wearing her face, someone who doesn't remember me at all. Just thinking about it breaks my heart."
Panic surged, cold and clawing. "Are you saying that even if we use ancient genes to resurrect the agent of memory, they won't have the memories they once had?" My words tumbled out, sharp with fear.