FIVE: The Awakening

He leans in, eyes gleaming.

“I am the Imperial Beta,” he says, low and gleeful. My eyes widened and I turn to the other guy who only looked at me as if I should already know what he is. He’s the Gamma. Oh My Goddess The Imperial Officials are in my house.

Why are they . . . why would they. Oh my God, I’m gonna die, aren’t I?

“The Alpha King . . .” The Imperial Beta—couch guy trails off as he paces slowly around the chair I’m bound in.

“He’s cursed.” His voice drops. I look at him, my brows furrowed. “What does that have to do wi—” I wasn’t able to finish my words when he glares at me. 

“Every year, for three months, the wolf in his head wakes up and butchers everything in sight. Not metaphorically. We’re talking madwolf. Bloodthirsty. No morals. No leash. He tore through his entire court last year. And I—we . . . burned the bones.”

I swallow bile. It tastes like iron and fear.

“Why the fuck would you send him here then?” I whisper. “Why dump him in the human world like a fucking rabid dog?”

“Because better your world than ours,” the other man says casually, like he’s discussing trash pickup, not human lives. “We can hide a dozen corpses out here a lot easier than we can explain one pack elder with his spine yanked out.”

“No, we’re pragmatic.”

“Is that what you call it?” I bark a bitter laugh. “I just watched him murder someone. I saw the way he—he smiled after. Like he enjoyed it.”

Neither of them flinches.

“He did,” the Beta says simply. “That’s the wolf. Not the man.”

“Don’t feed me that split-personality supernatural bullshit. I saw him. He knew what he was doing.”

My head’s spinning. I want to bolt. I want to scream. I want to slap that smug, apathetic look off his face and vomit all over his stupid designer shoes.

But I don’t move. Because somewhere behind the fog of shock, my survival instinct is sharpening its claws.

“What do you want me to do then? You want me to babysit him while he’s like that?” I say. “You’re out of your fucking minds.”

“No,” the Beta says. “We want you to keep him from becoming like that.”

I let out a breathless, deranged laugh. “Yeah? And how the fuck am I supposed to do that? Give him a chew toy? Read him bedtime stories?”

“You’re a doctor.”

“I’m not a fucking wolf psychiatrist.”

“You’re still all we’ve got.” His voice is colder now. “Because you’re the only one who’s seen him at his worst—and lived.”

“Barely,” I snap.

His gaze slices through me. “Then you should know what he’s capable of.”

The Gamma’s the one who steps forward this time, setting a thin black folder down on the cracked kitchen table. It looks out of place—clean, expensive, like it belongs in some corporate boardroom. He flips it open.

Legal documents. 

“Here’s the deal,” the Beta says. “Three months. That’s all. You keep him housed. Fed. Watched. You do whatever the fuck you have to do to keep him stable. We’ll clean up the rest.”

“You’re not giving me a choice.” I insist.

“We’re giving you a contract.” he slams his hand down the paper in front of me. “You’ll die, Eris. Fast, if you’re lucky. Slow, if he remembers you lied. Worse if he doesn’t.”

Silence swells between us like poison.

The Gamma flips the folder open. Legal pages. Thick with clauses and threats dressed as protection.

“I won’t sign that,” I say, though my voice sounds thinner than I want.

He shrugs one shoulder. “Then we toss you to the cops. Or the media. Whichever gets to you first.”

“You have no proof I did anything.”

“Sweetheart, we don’t need proof. You know how easy it is to plant blood under someone’s fingernails? A few anonymous tips, some doctored footage—bam. You’re the redheaded psycho doctor who kept a body in her freezer and helped a maniac carve up tourists.”

I feel the color drain from my face.

“You’re fucking blackmailing me.”

“We’re giving you a way to live,” the Beta says. “You need money, right? You can’t even pay your rent. We just bought you a fully furnished apartment in a better part of the city. You’ll be closer to your workplace, safer. We even threw in a car. Think of it as . . . hazard pay.”

My heart pounds so loud I can hear it echo in my skull. My skin is clammy. My brain is screaming don’t do it while my limbs stay frozen.

“I could kill him,” I say suddenly. “Right now. While he’s out. Slice his fucking throat and be done with it.”

The Beta’s eyes darken. But he doesn’t step forward. Doesn’t raise his voice.

“You could try,” he says. “And maybe you’d succeed. But then you’d still be signing your own death warrant. You kill an Alpha King, and his pack doesn’t just let it slide. We hunt you. We bury you slow.”

I laugh—sharp and cold and empty. “So those are my options? Be hunted, be framed, or play house with a fucking monster?”

“Three months,” the Beta says. “That’s all we’re asking.”

“And when he kills me?”

“You better hope he doesn’t.”

Silence again. I look down at the contract. The pen gleams like a blade beside it.

“And-and what if he . . . what if he wakes up?” I whisper.

“Then you lie. Again. And keep lying.”

“And if he finds out?”

“Then you’re already dead, aren’t you?”

They leave the contract open in front of me. A pen slides across the table.

My hands tremble. My lips press into a line. I stare down at the signature line and wonder if I’m about to sign my own death warrant or just my soul away.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

I grip the pen. “You better have included health insurance.”

The Beta snorts. “No promises.”

My hand closes around the pen. My chest is too tight. My eyes burn. I sign anyway. And just like that, I’m the legally bound nursemaid to a murderous, amnesiac Alpha King. 

* * *

THREE MONTHS LATER

The car is black, sleek, and expensive-looking. I still don’t trust it even though I already had it for three whole months.

The apartment is two blocks from my clinic, which is convenient for work, inconvenient for my sanity. It’s too clean, too modern. Like something out of a catalog designed for people who can actually afford food and heating.

There’s already food in the fridge when I first arrived. My favorite snacks. They did research.

Creepy.

I walk up the stairs slowly. This has been my new prison. Polished, sure, but it’s still a fucking cage. Third floor. End of the hall. Door's ajar.

I hesitate for half a second before pushing it open.

It’s dark inside. Moonlight leaks in through the open window, silver and still. There’s a low hum of machines—oxygen, IV pumps, a monitor that’s eerily silent except for the occasional beep.

He’s here.

I step closer. My boots are soft against the carpet, but every sound feels deafening in the stillness.

He’s laid out on the bed like a fallen god. Shirtless. Wounds still healing, but less grotesque than they were two days ago. Skin golden-brown under the moonlight. Black hair slightly curled over his forehead. Lips chapped. Brow furrowed.

My stomach twists.

He’s beautiful. And deadly.

“Dante Morelli,” I whisper as if I’m speaking a prayer—or a curse.

I walk to the side of the bed, sit slowly. My knees crack, and I rest my elbows on them, hands covering my face.

“What the fuck am I doing,” I mumble. “You’re a monster. You murdered someone in front of me like it was a fucking hobby.”

I glance up at him. No movement.

His chest rises and falls in slow, deep breaths. If it weren’t for the tubes and bandages, he’d look like he was just asleep. Normal. Almost . . . peaceful.

“I should’ve let you die,” I say, staring at the moon out the window.  I stand, pacing the room. I can’t sit still. My mind is racing. My fingers won’t stop twitching. I keep looking at him as if he’s going to wake up and bite my throat out. I’ve been doing this for the last three months.

But he doesn’t.

I glance back at him. “If you do wake up, just . . . don’t remember anything, okay?” I say, half-laughing, half-praying. “Don’t remember who you are. Don’t remember the forest. Don’t remember me.”

The wind stirs the curtains. The moon’s higher now. Full.

I move back to his side, staring down at him. “Please,” I whisper. “Please stay asleep. Just a little longer. Let me figure this shit out. Just give me time, and I swear I’ll—”

The sheets shift.

My heart fucking stops.

I freeze, eyes locked on the subtle, undeniable movement under the covers. His chest rises faster now. His fingers twitch.

Another movement—his head turns slightly, brows pulling together like he’s dreaming something violent.

The monitor starts beeping faster.

“Shit—”

I back away slowly, stumbling into a tray table. A metal cup crashes to the floor. The sound rings through the room like a goddamn alarm bell.

He groans. Low. Rough. Deep.

His fingers curl into the sheets.

Then—his eyes snap open. Crimson. Glowing.

And they’re looking straight at me.