Chapter 8

"Or?"

"Five hundred thousand, in your name, if you come with me and complete the ceremony. Today."

She studied him for a long while. "Marry me. No Severing. Ever."

His hand tightened to a fist. He closed his eyes. He opened them. "Done."

On the plane he could not sit still. Every memory of Wren flickered across him like a film — the cold winter, the hand that had held his, the smiles she had given him after every bad Healer visit. I'm fine, Damon. I'm fine. He had believed her because believing was easier than looking. He started, at last, to be sorry.

They made the Highland clinic by deep night. Damon ran. He pushed the door of her room and stopped cold. Wren lay small on the white bed. Cheeks hollow. Skin near-transparent. Breath so thin the monitor barely registered it. Her brow was faintly drawn — even unconscious she was holding pain down.

Arlan sat by the window. He looked at Damon without standing. "So you're Thorne. One more day and you wouldn't have made it."

Damon did not answer. He knelt at the bedside. His hand hovered over hers and couldn't land. He had not earned that touch. He cried. Quiet. Full. He understood, finally, what he had traded for what.

Selene stood in the doorway. Her face did something for a second that was almost human, then hardened.

Footsteps in the hall. Elias Hartley swept through the door, set his bag down, and glanced at Wren. "Transplant. Now. We fly her back. There's a window."

"Anything," Damon said. "I'll sign anything."

A small sound from the bed. Wren's eyes had opened. Her lips moved once. "I won't go."

Damon bent to her. His voice cracked. "Wren. Please. I'll be beside you every hour. I swear on the Moon. A whole life to pay for this. Please come back with me."

Elias added, gentler, "Kit. One more stretch. We can spare you some of the pain."

Arlan leaned on the bed rail. "Come home, Wren. We haven't finished the film."

Wren stared at the ceiling. A long moment. One slow blink. "All right."

Damon took her hand and put his forehead to her knuckles. He was careful. He would be careful with her from now on. He had sworn.

The transplant went clean. Wren woke in a capital Pack infirmary room that still smelled like disinfectant, but the ceiling no longer felt like it was pressing her down. Elias checked the bedside readouts and let a long breath out. "Tough. You're hard to kill, kit. Take it slow now. Sleep and eat. You'll be yourself again."

"First step," she whispered. She knew Silver Blight recovery — long road, slow turn. "Doctor or patient?"

Elias thumped a gentle finger against her forehead. "Yours truly says you live a long life. You mind your elders."

She laughed, careful of her stitches.

She had meant to hire a night-nurse. Marla Pemberton called first. She heard Wren was back from surgery with nobody at the bedside, and by the next morning Marla was in the infirmary with a soft-food basket and a thermos. She cooked light broth and steamed mash and plied Wren with gentle patience. Elias, on rounds, teased that Wren looked twice as good — was she smuggling tonic? "Only Marla," Wren said, and Marla pretended to swat her.

Damon came every day. He did not make it past the door. Marla planted herself in the hallway and gave him both barrels every time. "Now you show up? Where were you when she was choking on her own blood? You have some nerve standing here." Damon, who had at first tried to explain, stopped trying. By the third day he only stood at the far end of the corridor staring at Wren's door, then left.

Word traveled. The whole infirmary floor knew the story. The girl in 603 whose Alpha had nearly let her die while running off with the donor. Damon's name was done in the Pack gossip.

One afternoon Marla stepped out for pharmacy run. The door opened. Selene walked in. Full face, designer dress, bright bright smile. "Good news," she sang. She pulled a red Council marriage booklet from her handbag and flipped it open to the bonding photograph. Selene beaming. Damon flat, empty. "We're Mated. Officially." She leaned in to watch Wren break.

Wren barely glanced at it. "That was the price of your blood ceremony. Congratulations. You wore your mind out and got exactly what you chased. Arranged things never last."

Selene's face slipped. "What do you mean —"

"Leave. I'd like to rest."

Selene's eyes fell on the bedside bouquet — eustoma, sent up from Highland by Arlan. She snatched it. She broke the stems across her knee and ground the petals into the tile with her heel. "Say whatever you like. You have nothing now. You'll scrape by, if you live. I'll stand beside him and have all of his."

Wren looked at the ruined flowers on the floor. Teasing she could bear. That bouquet, she could not. "Who said I had nothing?"

Selene froze.

"Before the ceremony, Damon signed a covenant. If I lived, every asset under his name transferred to me." Wren's voice was calm.