Chapter 3

“Enough talk,” my mother snapped. “Elara doesn’t have time. Bind her and take her.”

Lysander produced a length of coarse rope woven with thin silver strands—enough to suppress a weak wolf’s shift, to cause a constant, burning discomfort. With my parents’ help, they tied my hands behind my back. The silver bit into my skin, a persistent, nasty burn.

“Move!” My mother shoved me forward.

I braced my feet against the doorframe, refusing to be moved.

Lysander didn’t hesitate. He kicked my ankle, a brutal, precise strike. Bone creaked. Agony shot up my leg.

“Aria, if Elara dies because of your stubbornness, I will end you myself,” he growled.

I crumpled, landing hard on my knees. A fresh, cramping pain bloomed in my abdomen.

“Watch the pup, you idiot! Hit her face, not her body!” my mother screeched at him.

Lysander grunted an acknowledgment. He and my father hauled me up like a sack of grain, dragging me toward the elevator.

The doors pinged open.

And standing there, tall and imposing in the casual clothes of an off-duty enforcer, was Bryce. Our neighbor. A senior Pack Enforcer. He’d helped me once when a rogue tried to corner me near the border.

Hope, bright and desperate, flared in my chest.

“H—” I gasped.

My mother’s hand clamped over my mouth, smelling of antiseptic and wolfsbane. “Feeling sick, darling? The clinic will fix you up.”

Bryce’s sharp eyes took in the scene: my bound hands, Lysander’s grip, my father’s hold, my tear-streaked face. “Trouble?”

“My mate,” Lysander said, voice smoothly concerned. “Pregnancy complications. We’re rushing her to the Healer.”

My hands were twisted behind me, Lysander’s fingers digging into the ropes to keep me still. I could only stare at Bryce, pouring every ounce of silent plea into my eyes.

“I’m a senior Healer from the birthing suites,” my mother added quickly, pulling her pack insignia from her pocket. “It’s a critical maternal distress. Every second counts.”

Bryce hesitated for a fraction of a second, then nodded, stepping aside. “Of course. Don’t let me delay you.”

The hope inside me guttered and died.

They hauled me into the elevator. As the doors closed, my mother pinched the tender skin of my upper arm, hard. “You little bitch. Trying to get an Enforcer involved? You’d condemn your own sister? You’re poison.”

The pain was sharp, but nothing compared to the despair.

My father’s pack-link communicator buzzed. He listened, his face turning ashen. “It’s the clinic. Elara’s fever is spiking. She’s seizing. They need the cord blood now.”

He looked at my stomach, his expression transforming from frustrated to terrifyingly resolved. “Straight to surgery. No delays.”

The elevator doors opened to the underground garage.

They rushed to drag me out.

“Hold it.”

The voice was authoritative, echoing in the concrete space.

Bryce stood there, his posture now that of an Enforcer on alert, blocking the path to Lysander’s car.