Chapter 14 · Direct Draw

The monitor was screaming when I hit the top of the stairs.

One flat, endless screech. No numbers. No rhythm. Just the sound of a machine giving up.

I threw my shoulder into the bathroom door.

Soaked towels were jammed along the crack, right where I told Maya to put them. She was on her knees on the wet tile, both hands locked over her brother’s sternum.

Leo was gray. Not pale—the dull, frozen gray of meat left too long in the back of a freezer. His lips were the color of skim milk.

"He stopped," Maya said. Steady. Six years old, voice completely flat, because that’s how I’d trained her to survive.

"Move."

I shoved her back with my hip, locked my palms over his ribs, and threw my weight down.

*Crack.*

A six-year-old’s rib gives under your hands if you do CPR right. I didn't stop. I counted through my teeth.

"Bag valve. Hall cabinet, bottom shelf. Run."

Her bare feet slapped the floor. Fast. My brave, terrified girl.

"Come on, Leo." Twelve. Thirteen. "Don't you dare quit on me. Come on, baby."

His lungs were drowning in silver smoke. Silver doesn't just burn lycan tissue—