Two months passed like water through a sieve — present, moving, leaving almost nothing behind except the steady accumulation of work. I rebuilt myself the only way I knew how: one protocol at a time, one patient at a time, one night shift where I was too tired to think about anything except the next suture.

The pup was gone by the end of the first month. A quiet, private loss that happened in my apartment with only Rowan present. She held my hand and said nothing, which was exactly what I needed. We didn't talk about Boston. We didn't talk about the Crimson Crown. We talked about cellular degeneration rates and whether the experimental protocol needed a third phase of trials.

I went back to work the next day.

Rowan didn't stop me. She just watched me with those steady, assessing eyes and adjusted my patient load so I wasn't doing physical examinations for a week. Small mercies from a woman who understood that sometimes the only way through grief is to work until your hands are too busy to shake.

The Crimson Crown bloodline curse consumed my research hours. I read everything — old pack records, Lycan medical journals, case studies from Healers who'd tried and failed to slow the cellular breakdown. The curse was elegant in its cruelty: a hereditary condition that degraded the bond between wolf and human consciousness, slowly starving the wolf until it faded entirely. Terminal in most cases. Untreatable in all of them.

Dr. Kelly and I developed the protocol together, working late into the night in her private lab. She never asked why I was so focused on this particular condition. She just handed me research notes and asked sharp questions that made the work better.

We co-published under both our names. The paper made quiet waves in Healer circles — not enough to be flashy, but enough that my clinical reputation began to extend beyond Moonveil's borders. I was invited to consult on two cases in neighboring territories. I declined both. I wasn't ready to leave the safety of my own clinic yet.

My wolf stayed silent. Not gone — I could still feel her, a low constant presence like tinnitus — but muted in a way that felt permanent. She didn't push for shifts anymore. Didn't rise toward other wolves' scents. She just existed, quietly, like someone who'd learned that hoping for things only led to disappointment.

I understood the feeling.

Sera Voss started bringing me tea during night shifts. She was one of the senior Healers, older than Rowan, with silver threading through her dark hair and the kind of steady competence that made patients trust her immediately. She never asked questions. Just set the tea down on my desk, squeezed my shoulder once, and left.

I didn't realize she knew until much later.

The morning the scheduling request came through, I was in the archive room pulling files for a bloodline diagnostic I was running on a young wolf from the eastern border. Sera found me there, standing between two tall shelves with my arms full of folders.

"Alyssa," she said. Her voice was calm. Too calm. The way people sound when they're about to tell you something you won't want to hear.

I looked up. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong." She stepped closer, her hands folded in front of her in that particular way Healers stand when they're delivering bad news to family members. "We have a scheduling request. Pre-ceremony bloodline screening. Lycan Prince and his intended mate. Dr. Kelly's suite."

My hands tightened on the folders. I didn't say anything.

Sera watched me. "It's routed to Rowan. But I can reassign it to you if you want."

"Why would I want that?" My voice came out flat. Professional.

"Because you deserve to face it standing up," Sera said quietly. "Masked. On your own terms. In your own clinic."

I stared at her. She knew. Somehow, she knew. Maybe Rowan had told her. Maybe she'd just watched me come back from the Crimson Crown territory two months ago with dead eyes and put the pieces together herself.

"I don't need to face anything," I said.

Sera nodded slowly. "All right. Then I'll leave it with Rowan."

She turned to go.

"Wait." The word came out before I could stop it. Sera paused, her hand on the doorframe, and looked back at me.

I set the folders down on the nearest shelf. My hands were steady. My breathing was even. "When?"

"Tomorrow afternoon. Two o'clock."

I nodded once. "Reassign it."

Sera's expression didn't change, but something in her eyes softened. "I'll update the schedule."

She left. I stood there in the archive room for a long time, surrounded by files on bloodline conditions and hereditary curses, and felt my wolf stir for the first time in weeks. Not hope. Not longing. Just a low, quiet awareness that something was coming.

I went back to my office and pulled up the Crimson Crown protocol files. I read through them again, even though I had them memorized. Then I cleaned my desk, organized my instruments, and laid out a fresh set of surgical gloves.

Tomorrow, Boston West would walk into my clinic. And I would be ready.

The diagnostic suite smelled like antiseptic and lavender oil. I'd requested the lavender myself months ago — it helped anxious patients relax during bloodwork. Today, it just made the air feel heavier.

I stood at the instrument tray, back to the door, arranging syringes I'd already arranged twice. My hands were steady. My breathing was even. The mask covered half my face and the surgical gloves felt like armor.

Sera knocked once before opening the door. "Your two o'clock is here, Dr. Ross."

"Thank you." My voice came out calm. Professional. Like this was any other appointment.

She held my gaze for a fraction of a second longer than necessary, then stepped aside.

Boston West walked in first.

The air pressure changed immediately. His Lycan aura filled the room like a physical presence — commanding, undeniable, the kind of dominance that made lesser wolves bare their necks without thinking. He wore tailored charcoal, his posture straight and assured. Every inch the prince I'd never known he was.

My wolf stirred. Not with longing. Just… recognition. A dull, distant acknowledgment that yes, this was the one who broke us.

I kept my eyes on my tablet.

Gianna Lawson followed half a step behind. She was striking in the efficient way of someone who'd learned early that beauty was a tool, not an identity. Dark hair pulled back. Neutral expression. She moved like a woman for whom this appointment was simply one item on a well-managed schedule.

I gestured to the examination chairs without looking up. "Please, sit. This will take approximately thirty minutes."

Boston's footsteps stopped. I felt his stare like a weight on the side of my face, but I didn't turn. I pulled up the screening protocol on my tablet and began reading the preliminary questions in the same tone I used for every patient.

"Any recent illnesses? Unexplained fatigue? Changes in shift duration or control?"

Gianna answered first. "No to all three."

I made notes. "And you, Your Highness?"

A pause. Then: "No."

His voice was exactly the same. Low, steady, with that faint edge of command he probably didn't even notice anymore. It used to make me feel safe. Now it just sounded like noise.

I moved through the questions methodically. Family history of bloodline conditions. Prior screenings. Documented curse markers. Gianna answered each one with brisk precision. Boston's answers came slower, his attention clearly elsewhere.

I could feel him watching me. Trying to place my voice, maybe. Or my scent, though the antiseptic and lavender masked most of it. My wolf stayed silent. She'd learned her lesson about hoping.

"I'll need a blood sample from each of you," I said, setting the tablet down and reaching for the first syringe. "Standard protocol for pre-ceremony screenings."

I started with Gianna. She extended her arm without hesitation, her expression unchanging as I tied the tourniquet and located the vein. The needle slid in clean. Dark red filled the vial.

"All set." I labeled the sample and set it aside. "Your Highness?"

Boston moved to the chair beside Gianna. He rolled up his sleeve — the same motion I'd watched him make a hundred times in the rogue-border town, back when I thought I knew him — and extended his arm.

I tied the tourniquet. His skin was warm under my gloved fingers. My wolf made a sound I barely heard.

The needle went in. Blood filled the second vial, and I was already reaching for the label when I felt it.

The decision.

I could walk out of this room and he would never know. Never see my face. Never have to carry the knowledge that the woman he'd discarded had been standing three feet away, holding his blood in a sterile vial, breathing the same air.

But Sera was right.

I deserved to face this standing up.

I set the vial down. Pulled off the tourniquet. Pressed a cotton ball to the puncture site. Then I reached up and lowered my mask.

Slowly. Deliberately. The way I removed my gloves when I needed to steel myself for something difficult.

I met his eyes.

Boston froze.

The recognition hit him like a physical blow. I watched it happen — the way his pupils dilated, the way his whole body went rigid, the way his scent spiked so sharply that even Gianna turned to look at him.

Cedar and winter iron flooded the small room. Raw and uncontrolled. His eyes flashed gold.

Kaelen. His wolf. Surging forward.

I held his gaze and didn't flinch.

"The pup was lost," I said quietly. My voice was steady. Factual. The way I delivered any difficult news to a patient's family. "Four months ago. I wish you a long life, Your Highness."

I replaced my mask. Collected my tablet. Turned toward the door.

"Alyssa—" His voice cracked on my name.

I didn't stop. Didn't look back. I walked out of the diagnostic suite with the same steady pace I'd walked out of the Crimson Crown gardens two months ago, and closed the door behind me.

The hallway was empty. Sera had cleared it.

I made it five steps before I heard the crash.

Then Gianna's voice, sharp and commanding: "Get a Healer. Now."