THE SURVIVOR'S STORY
The medical wing smelled of crushed herbs, antiseptic smoke, and that strange hush that only lived in places where death sometimes hovered but hadn't decided whether to stay.
I sat beside the survivor's bed and watched her chest rise in shallow, stubborn breaths.
Machines clicked. Softly. Steadily. Like they were counting down to something.
Draven moved between glass bottles and silver instruments with the quiet certainty of a man who had wrestled death too many times to be intimidated by it anymore.
But even he looked tense.
And that unsettled me.
The wolf who had staggered into Damon's study carrying a knife and fifteen years of secrets had not been what any of us thought.
Not Corvin Vale. Not a dead communications officer dragged back from history.
Maren.
My mother's aide. A ghost. A witness. A woman who had buried herself alive in lies just to survive long enough to tell the truth.
