The moment Melanie's words land—he won't make it—everything fractures.
Callen is already moving before my mind catches up, his hand closing around mine as Samantha bolts from the pack house like something has torn straight through her chest. Cameran is right behind us, breath ragged, eyes wild. None of us speak. There is no space for words—not with that sound still echoing in my head. The sound Sam made when she heard Melanie's words.
I should have listened.
The guilt claws into me with every step as we run. I felt her panic. I saw it burning behind her eyes, the way her aura flickered, sharp and volatile, like a warning flare we all chose to ignore. Goddess, I knew better. Even unmarked, even unmated, Samantha and Kieran are not like other pairs. Their bond hums differently—deeper, older. Stronger, somehow.
Stronger than it should be.
Maybe because she's a White Wolf.
The thought makes my stomach twist again, unease spreading through me like cold water. I should never have dismissed her. I am a Beta. I am trained to read threats, to sense danger before it breaks the surface. And yet when Samantha said something was wrong, I told her she was worrying too much.
Queen Luna.
No—my chest tightens painfully—that's not what she is.
She is the rightful monarch.
The realization lands heavy, undeniable now that I allow myself to see it clearly. Samantha's strength has never felt like Kieran's. His aura demands submission—it presses down, reminds you of rank, of power enforced by dominance. But Samantha?
Reverence.
That's the only word for it.
My wolf recognized it the very first moment we met her. There was no resistance, no instinct to push back. Just a quiet, instinctual lowering. Recognition. Not of a Queen alone—but of something other. Something that does not rule by force, but by right.
By blood.
By divinity threaded through mortal veins.
And when she and Emma finally stopped hiding… Goddess. Every time Samantha enters a room, my wolf stills. Not the begrudging obedience owed to rank—but a deep, bone-level acknowledgment. As if some ancient part of us knows exactly what she is, even if our minds lag behind.
We reach the pack hospital too quickly and not nearly fast enough.
Samantha and Enoch stand near the entrance—then Enoch says something I can't hear, and Samantha runs. Pure instinct. Straight toward the back rooms.
The second I step inside, the remnants of her aura slam into me.
I nearly buckle.
It lingers in the air like heat after lightning, thick and overwhelming. Even this—just the echo of her power—makes my knees want to bend. My wolf presses low, reverent, awed. I swallow hard, forcing myself upright.
Our friend, I remind myself fiercely, the words a shield and a wound all at once.
She is our friend.
And we should have stood with her.
The truth settles heavy in my chest, suffocating. Titles don't matter in moments like this. Queen, White Wolf, monarch—none of it changes the fact that when Samantha needed us to believe her, we hesitated. We measured. We doubted. And now Kieran lies on a table somewhere bleeding out while she runs headfirst into the one place no mate should ever have to go alone.
Footsteps pound down the corridor.
Cameran bursts in, breath shredded, eyes wild—and then she sees Enoch.
She stops short like she's hit an invisible wall. Her gaze locks on him, on the blood soaked into his skin, smeared across his chest and arms, dried dark and tacky in places, still wet in others. For a split second I think she might scream.
"It's not mine," Enoch says quickly, voice rough, raw with things he isn't letting himself feel yet. "Most of it is Kieran's."
The words land like a blow.
The world tilts on its axis.
I feel it in my knees, in the way my balance falters, in the way my wolf recoils and then goes deathly still. Kieran. Our King. Bleeding enough to coat another wolf in it. My chest tightens painfully as the reality sharpens into something jagged and real.
Cameran doesn't cry.
She nods once—short, violent, like it costs her everything to stay upright. Her eyes are already scanning the halls, searching, frantic, zeroed in on one thing only.
Samantha.
When Enoch jerks his chin toward the back rooms and tells her where Sam went, Cameran doesn't hesitate. Not even for a heartbeat. She turns and runs, fury and terror braided together in her wake.
I watch her go, throat burning.
She didn't ask questions. She didn't demand details. She didn't freeze like the rest of us did earlier. She trusted Sam. Immediately. Completely.
Another failure added to the pile.
Enoch turns back to us then, jaw clenched so tight I can see the muscle ticking beneath his skin. His eyes are dark, haunted, carrying the weight of every second he was out there watching Kieran fall apart and being unable to stop it.
And as he opens his mouth to speak, I already know—whatever he's about to say is going to change everything.
"It was Valen," he says. "The attack was planned—to undermine Kieran's reform. But when Valen saw him…" He shakes his head slowly. "He took advantage. He's after Samantha. He wants her."
Cold fury explodes through me.
"Well he isn't going to fucking have her," Callen snarls beside me, voice vibrating with rage—and guilt. I feel it rolling off him. He knows. He knows we failed her.
"We need to move," I say tightly, the words scraping out of my throat. "If Kieran survives even a little longer, we can't keep him here. He's exposed."
The hospital suddenly feels too small. Too open. Every corridor a vulnerability, every second another chance for Valen—or someone worse—to finish what he started. My wolf paces beneath my skin, restless and sharp, sensing danger the way she always does when blood and power saturate the air.
"He isn't safe to transfer."
The voice comes from behind us.
I turn slowly.
Doctors. Nurses. Too many of them. All standing together. All stepping away from the room.
My heart stutters, then drops.
No.
My wolf recoils, hackles rising, instinct screaming that something is wrong—that prey is being abandoned, that a life is being written off far too easily.
"The Queen ordered us out," one of the doctors says quietly, eyes fixed on the floor as if he can't bear to look at us. "There is nothing more we can do."
The words slam into me, hollowing out my chest.
The Queen.
They mean Samantha.
She ordered them out.
Because she's breaking.
She would rather burn the world than watch him die piece by piece.
Callen's aura detonates.
It's not gradual. It's not controlled. It's the full force of a Beta who has lost patience with restraint and reason.
"Get your ass back in there," he roars, stepping forward, power rolling off him in crushing waves, "or I'll hang you for treason and let the Goddess sort out the rest—"
For a split second, I think he might actually do it.
Then—
"It's okay."
Dawson's voice cuts cleanly through the chaos, calm in a way that sends a chill down my spine.
He approaches with David and Melanie at his sides. All three of them wear the same expression—grim, solemn, braced for history being rewritten in real time.
"Let her have time," Dawson says evenly.
Time.
The word barely registers.
Because time is something Kieran doesn't have.
Because time is what we denied Samantha earlier.
Because time is the one thing no one ever gives a dying King.
And then—
Light.
Not harsh.
It spills from beneath the door in a sudden, brilliant surge, silver-white and alive, crawling across the floor like liquid starlight. Heat follows it—not burning, not painful, but heavy enough to steal breath from my lungs.
My wolf drops inside me.
Not in fear.
In reverence.
Every instinct in my body screams to bow, to submit, to witness.
More Blinding. Silver-white. It pours out of the room like dawn ripping through stone. Heat follows, covering myself is all I can do. The corridor erupts in gasps and cries as wolves shield their eyes, instincts screaming.
When the light fades, Enoch and Cameran stumble out, shaken, eyes wide. Gasping for breath and shielding their eyes.
"Kieran's going to be fine," Cameran says breathlessly, almost disbelieving.
"What?" I whisper in disbelief.
"I've never seen power like that," Enoch murmurs, staring at the door in awe. "Not even in witches. She—she's truly a White Wolf."
"Lumen," I breathe. "It doesn't only purify. It heals." My chest tightens painfully. "It makes sense she became a healer. Her power was calling to her long before she knew what she was."
David turns to the doctor, who nods slowly after checking inside.
"He will live," the doctor says. "Thanks to our Queen."
Our Queen.
The words settle deep, unquestioned.
"The Elders will come," I say quietly. "They'll want proof of his death."
"Then we show them he lives," Callen replies coldly. "And even if he hadn't—" his eyes flick toward the room "—the rightful monarch still stands."
Dawson inclines his head. "We go with you. It's our duty to protect her."
Melanie is already moving. "Airborne in twenty."
As the hall begins to buzz with urgency, my gaze drifts back to the closed door.