POV Blake
Waking up in a hospital bed with your arranged husband death-gripping your hand while a doctor who looks like he graduated yesterday explains your fake diagnosis is not how I planned to spend my Tuesday.
"—stress-related," Dr. Alex Hardman is saying, and I have to respect his poker face.
He's what, twenty-four? Twenty-five? Yet carries himself like he's been dealing with Alpha tantrums since birth.
"Luna Amelia has been remarkably active in pack affairs. Everyone's noticed how much she's taken on."
Translation: Your wife's working herself into the ground and you didn't notice, you absolute walnut.
Matthias's jaw could cut glass. "It's not normal for a wolf to just collapse. Run more tests. Check everything. There has to be—"
"I'm awake," I croak, because watching him spiral is making my chest do uncomfortable things.
The transformation is instant. Angry Alpha to worried husband in 0.2 seconds. His hand comes up to brush hair from my face, and the tenderness in the gesture makes me want to confess everything and beg forgiveness.
"How do you feel?" His voice is soft, careful, like I might shatter.
"Fine." The lie rolls off my tongue like water. Twenty years of practice makes perfect. "I just want to go home."
Alex gives me a look that says he knows I'm full of shit but respects the hustle. "If Luna feels well enough, I see no reason to keep her. But rest. Please. Doctor's orders."
"Scout's honor," I say, holding up three fingers.
"That's the wrong—" Alex starts, then shakes his head. "Never mind. Alpha, a word?"
They step aside for what I assume is the "your wife is lying about being fine" conversation, but I'm already planning my escape.
Hospitals smell like antiseptic and desperation, and I've had enough of both. The sterile walls, the too-clean linens, the faint scent of herbs that can't quite mask the tang of bleach—everything about this place makes my skin crawl.
It’s not fear, exactly.
It's a memory.
Of cold floors under my bare feet during late-night punishments. Of being told to sit still, to stop crying, to be grateful I was even being treated at all.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed slowly, testing my balance. My bones still ache in that strange, restless way, but the intensity has dulled.
At least for now.
I need fresh air. I need to not be watched. Not analyzed. Not dissected like a broken thing someone’s trying to glue back together.
Matthias’s low voice murmurs something to the doctor and I hear my name, followed by a frustrated sigh. But Dr. Hardman allows us to go.
By the time we get back to our room, the sun’s setting and Matthias has gone full mother hen.
He practically carries me to bed, despite my half-hearted protests, like I’m some fragile porcelain doll that might shatter if left unsupervised for more than a minute.
The way he moves—gentle, cautious, careful—makes something squeeze in my chest.
He tucks me in like I’m five years old, smoothing the blanket with the precision of someone who doesn’t trust the universe not to mess things up the second he looks away.
Then he just stands there. Arms folded, jaw tense, radiating anxiety like a lighthouse warning every ship in the sea: danger, danger, danger.
"I've posted a guard outside," he says, and of course he has. "If you need anything—water, food, someone to validate your existence—you call him."
"And where will you be?"
I already know the answer, but I ask anyway, and his face does this complicated thing between duty and desire.
"Meeting with Zack. Something came up with the border situation. I wouldn't leave if—"
"It's fine." Another lie. Nothing about this is fine. "Go be Alpha. I'll be here, resting like a good little Luna."
He looks physically pained, like leaving me is against his molecular structure. Another sharp twist in my bones makes me bite my cheek, but I keep my face neutral. The last thing he needs is more reasons to hover.
"Amelia—" He catches himself.
"Just go," I whisper, because if he doesn’t go, I might actually combust.
He leans down, cradling my face between his hands like I'm something precious instead of a walking fraud.
The kiss he gives me isn't gentle—it's desperate, consuming, like he's trying to crawl inside my skin and set up camp. My body responds without permission, heat pooling low and urgent.
When he pulls back, we're both breathing hard.
"I'll be back soon," he promises, pressing one more kiss to my forehead.
Then he's gone, and I'm alone with my rebellious body and a guard outside who's probably wondering why his Luna is such a hot mess.
The bone pain returns the second the door closes, like it was waiting for privacy. This time it's sharper, more insistent, like something inside me is trying to claw its way out. I curl into a ball, biting my pillow to muffle any sounds.
This is fine. Everything is fine.
I'm just casually dying while living a lie in enemy territory while flirting with my sister's husband who treats me like a princess.
Totally fine.
The pillow tastes like expensive fabric softener and broken dreams. I bite harder, wondering if it's possible to die from irony poisoning.
Because the cosmic joke here is spectacular: I finally found somewhere I belong, people who value me, a man who looks at me like I matter—and I'm literally falling apart at the seams.
My bones twist again, and this time I taste blood from biting too hard. And still better than the alternative—letting them see how pathetic I really am.
Blake Bishop, wolfless daughter of the Alpha, powerless error of the ancient bloodline, is dying as she lived: pretending everything's fine while everything burns.
At least I'm consistent.