"Room three."
The night nurse doesn't look up. Doesn't ask questions. She's seen this before—hunters limping through the side door at two in the morning, bleeding things they can't explain.
Rena keeps her arm pressed to her ribs. The gauze is soaked through. Doesn't matter. The burn's spreading anyway, crawling up toward her elbow like something's burrowing under her skin.
She pushes past the empty waiting room. Her boots squeak on the linoleum. Every sound's too loud now. The vending machine hum. A faucet dripping somewhere. Her own heartbeat slamming against her ribs.
Room three's got a steel table and a tray of silver instruments. The kind they use for extractions. Cutting out infected tissue before it spreads to the heart.
She sits. The metal's cold even through her jeans. She unwraps the gauze slow, teeth gritted.
The scratches have opened wider. Four parallel lines, deep enough to see muscle. The edges are black—not infection black, something else. The veins around the wound pulse with that same silver-green light she saw in the car.
She presses her thumb against the worst one. The pain spikes hot and immediate. Good. Pain means she's still human.
The door opens.
Her hand goes to the knife on her belt. Instinct.
But it's not the nurse.
"You."
She knows before he steps into the light. Knows from the way her chest tightens, the way her breath catches. The same pull she felt in the warehouse right before the wolf lunged.
He's tall. Dark hair, dark eyes. Leather jacket like he walked off some back-road bike gang. But it's the way he moves that gives it away—too smooth, too sure. Predator mechanics.
He shuts the door behind him. Locks it. The click's very loud in the small room.
"Me," he says.
Rena's knife is out. Silver blade, eight inches, sharp enough to split fur and bone. She keeps it level between them. "Wrong room, wolf."
"Right room." He doesn't even glance at the knife. His eyes go straight to her arm. To the wound. Something shifts in his expression. "You're burning up."
"Get out or I put this through your throat."
"You could try." He takes a step closer. Her grip tightens. "But you won't. You need me."
The burn in her arm spikes. She hisses, nearly drops the blade.
He's right. She hates that he's right.
"I don't need anything from you," she says.
"Yeah?" He tilts his head. The movement's too fluid. Too animal. "Then why're you shaking?"
She's not. Except she is. Her hand trembles around the knife grip. The fluorescent light catches the silver-green glow under her skin, makes it flare brighter.
He sees it. His jaw tightens.
"It's moving faster than I thought," he says quietly.
"What is."
"The bite."
"I wasn't bitten." The lie tastes like metal. "It was a scratch."
"Sure." He pulls a chair over, sits down like they're having coffee. Casual. Relaxed. Makes her want to stab him just for the arrogance. "That's why your veins are lighting up. That's why you can hear my heartbeat from six feet away."
She can't.
Except she can. Steady and slow. Confident. Nothing like her own rabbit-fast pulse.
"I can smell you," he adds. "Fear. Adrenaline. Silver nitrate under your nails. And something else. Something new."
Rena's stomach turns. "Shut up."
"You felt it in the warehouse. The pull." His eyes lock on hers. They're darker than they should be. Almost black. "You feel it now."
She does. God help her, she does. Like a hook in her chest, dragging her toward him. Makes her want to close the distance. Makes her want to—
She drives the knife down. Not at him. At her own hand.
The blade punches through her palm and into the steel table with a metallic shriek.
The pain's clean. Sharp. Human.
The pull snaps.
She sucks in a breath, leaves the knife where it is. Blood wells up around the blade, drips onto the table. Her hand screams. Good.
"Feel better?" His voice is flat now. Angry, maybe.
"Yeah."
"Won't work for long."
"Long enough."
He stands. Walks over. She tenses, but he doesn't reach for her. Just looks at the knife, the blood, her face.
"You're tougher than the last three," he says.
"Last three what."
"Hunters I bit."
Her breath stops. "You."
"Me." He pulls a small vial from his jacket. Dark glass. Something liquid inside. "They all tried to fight it too. Lasted about four days before the shift started. Then they either ate a silver bullet or turned."
Rena's vision narrows. The room tilts.
Four days.
She's got less than thirty till the full moon. Less than thirty to find a cure, to fix this, to stay human.
"Why," she manages.
"Why'd I bite you?" He sets the vial on the tray beside her. "Or why am I here?"
"Both."
"I bit you because I had to. Someone made sure you'd be in that warehouse. Made sure you'd come alone." His mouth twists. "I couldn't let you die. Not before I knew why."
"And now?"
"Now I'm here because that—" He nods at her arm. "—is gonna kill you in about six hours if you don't take what's in that vial."
She stares at the dark glass. "What is it."
"My blood."
Her stomach lurches. "No."
"Your choice. Drink it, or the infection reaches your heart by sunrise. After that, no amount of silver stops the shift."
"You're lying."
"Am I?" He leans against the counter, arms crossed. Watching her. "Check your pulse. It's already doubling. Your body's trying to fight the venom. Losing."
She doesn't need to check. She can feel it. The heat spreading through her chest. The way her lungs work harder with every breath.
"Why would your blood help," she says.
"Because I'm the one who bit you. Alpha venom, Alpha cure. For a while."
"For a while."
"It'll hold the shift down. Buy you time. But you'll need more. Every three days till the full moon."
Rena yanks the knife out of her palm. The pain's distant now, muffled under the burn in her veins. She presses her good hand over the wound. Blood seeps between her fingers.
"So I'm your pet project now," she says. "Come back every three days, get my fix, stay human."
"Something like that."
"And if I don't."
He pushes off the counter. Takes a step toward the door. "Then I'll see you at the full moon. You'll be hunting with us instead of hunting us."
Her throat tightens. No. She'd rather eat her own silver bullet. Rather let Marcus put her down like the compromise she'd become.
"Wait," she says.
He stops. Doesn't turn around.
"What do you want," she asks. "You didn't bite me just to play medic. What do you get out of this."
Now he looks back. His smile's sharp. Dangerous.
"Twenty-nine days," he says. "You've got twenty-nine days till the full moon. Drink the vial, and I'll tell you where to find me. Don't, and you'll find me anyway. Just won't be you doing the finding."
He leaves. The door swings shut behind him. The lock doesn't click this time.
Rena stares at the vial. Her hand's still bleeding. The wound on her arm glows brighter. The burn's in her shoulder now. Crawling toward her neck.
Six hours, he said.
She picks up the vial. The glass is warm. Inside, the liquid's dark red. Almost black. Doesn't smell like blood. Smells like smoke and pine and something wild she doesn't have a name for.
Her fingers tighten around it.
Twenty-nine days.
She pulls the stopper.
Drinks.",