I never answered Tessa's question. I closed my eyes and let the fever pull me under.

When I woke, the light had gone orange. Owen was sitting in the plastic chair, elbows on his knees, watching me.

"She's out of danger," he said before I could speak. "Iris. Her wolf stabilized this afternoon. The doctor says she'll make a full recovery."

I stared at him. "Congratulations."

He flinched. "Maris, that's not why I'm telling you." He leaned forward. "I did it. I spoke the rejection to her an hour ago. The true bond is already cracked. Once she accepts, it's over."

"Once she accepts."

"She will. She's just scared right now." He reached for my hand. I pulled it under the blanket. His fingers closed on empty sheet. "I gave up my fated mate for you. Do you understand what that means? Wolves wait their whole lives for that, and I said no. For you."

"You said no to me first."

"To save a life." He scrubbed a hand down his face. "Let me fix it. We'll redo the chosen bond. New marks, a new ceremony, whatever you want." His voice softened. "And we'll have another baby. As many as you want. I promise."

Another baby.

As if the first one were a vase he'd knocked off a shelf.

I thought about the tile under my cheek. The coffee steaming on an empty desk. A sweet voice saying *goodnight, Mrs. Marlow*.

"No," I said.

He sat back slowly. "No to what?"

"To all of it."

For a second he only looked at me. Then his jaw locked.

"You know what I see when I look at you right now?" he said quietly. "Someone who only counts the dead. A girl is alive because of me, Maris. Alive. And you won't even look at that. All you see is the baby."

The room went very still.

"All I see," I repeated, "is the baby."

"That's not what I—"

"Get out, Owen."

He stood. At the door he turned, like he had one more thing to say. Then his phone lit up in his hand, and he left without saying it.

Something inside me went quiet after that. Not broken. Just finished.

---

By midnight I could stand.

I held the railing along the hallway wall and took one step, then another. My legs trembled like a newborn foal's. The nurses had told me to walk a little before bed. I wanted to prove I could leave on my own feet.

I reached the corner by the east wing and stopped.

"Easy. Easy, sweetheart."

Owen's voice. Low and warm, the way he used to talk to me on Sunday mornings.

The private suite's door hadn't latched. A strip of soft blue moon-lamp light spilled across the floor.

I should have turned around. I pressed my palm to the wall and moved closer.

Iris lay on the bed with her hospital gown pushed up to her ribs. Owen was over her, shirtless, his weight braced on his forearms so none of it touched her chest. Her bare thighs were wrapped around his hips.

"Owen," she whimpered. Tears ran into her hair. "I won't ask you for anything. I swear. I just wanted to know what it feels like. Having my true mate. Once. Before you're gone forever."

"Shh." He kissed one tear off her cheekbone, then the other. "You don't have to explain."

"Am I hurting you? Is this okay?"

"Iris, you're perfect." He reached up and tucked the pillow higher under her head, adjusting it twice until her neck rested easy. "Better?"

She nodded. He kissed her slowly, open-mouthed, and pushed into her.

I watched his hips roll forward, unhurried. Her nails slid down his bare back. Her breasts rose under his palm as he stroked his thumb across her nipple, gentle as if she might break.

"Fuck, Iris," he breathed against her throat, right over his new mark. "You feel so good. Look at me. Stay with me."

"I'm here. Owen, don't stop."

"I won't. I've got you."

He kept that slow rhythm, never rough, never rushing. He checked her face every few strokes. He whispered her name over and over, like a prayer.

Nine years. Nine years, and he had never once checked my face.

I didn't cry. I didn't push open the door. I didn't scream his name down the hall.

Instead, I touched the torn mark on my neck and felt that last thin thread, humming with his pleasure.

"I, Maris Marlow," I said, clear and calm, "accept your rejection, Owen Marlow."

The thread snapped.

It sounded like nothing. It felt like a door closing inside my chest.

Inside the room, Owen jerked. A raw cry tore out of him. He rolled off the bed and hit the floor on his knees, both hands clawing at his ribs where my mark had lived.

"Owen?" Iris sat up, clutching the sheet. "Owen, what's wrong?"

He lifted his head. His gold eyes found the gap in the door.

Found me.

"Maris," he gasped.

I turned and walked.

My legs shook, but they held. The elevator was twenty steps away. I counted every one.

"Maris! Wait!"

Bare feet slapped the tile behind me. I stepped into the elevator and pressed the button for the lobby.

Owen stumbled into the hall, chest bare, belt hanging open. His face had gone gray with pain.

"Don't," he panted. "Maris, please. Don't do this."

The doors began to slide.

I twisted the ring off my finger. It came free easily. I'd lost weight these past six weeks, and he had never noticed.

I tossed it. It bounced once and rolled against his bare toes.

He stared down at it like it was a bullet.

Behind him, Iris stood in the doorway, wrapped in the white sheet, hair tangled.

"Owen," she called, small and trembling. "Come back to bed. Please. I'm cold."

He didn't move. He was looking at me.

For the first time in nine years, he was really looking at me.

The doors closed.

---

The lobby was empty. The night air outside smelled like wet asphalt and nothing else. Not rain. Not mint. Not him.

I walked past the taxi line in a hospital gown and borrowed slippers.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. I expected Owen.

It was an unknown number.

*Mrs. Marlow. This is Larkin House. We heard you might be free again. Call us. It's about your mother's formula.*