REJECTED BY MY FAMILY CLAIMED BY THE LYCAN KING

Seraphina's POV

---

The needle slides into my vein like a familiar betrayal.

I don't flinch anymore. Six months of this has taught me that flinching only makes Dr. Crane's hands shake worse, and when his hands shake, the needle moves, and when the needle moves, I bleed faster than they need me to.

"Just a little more," Dr. Crane murmurs. His voice is soft, almost gentle. Almost kind. Like he's talking to a frightened animal instead of a girl he's been slowly draining for half a year.

I watch my blood fill the bag. Dark red. Steady. My life pouring out of me one drop at a time.

Through the wall, I hear laughter.

Liora's laughter. Light and musical and completely fake.

"Mother, stop it! You're going to make me spill my tea!"

My mother's voice follows, warm in a way it never is with me. "Then stop being so clumsy, darling. You know how fragile you are."

Fragile.

I almost laugh. Almost.

Dr. Crane's hands are definitely shaking now. He doesn't look at me. He never looks at me during the transfusions. Just at the bag, at the tube, at the clock on the wall. Anywhere but my face.

"How much longer?" I ask.

"Ten minutes. Maybe less."

"You said that twenty minutes ago."

His jaw tightens. "You're being dramatic, Seraphina. It's not good for your health."

My health.

I want to laugh again, but I'm too tired. My limbs feel like they're filled with sand. My head pounds in a rhythm that matches my heartbeat. Slow. Sluggish. Wrong.

I've been counting.

Six months. Twenty-three transfusions. Each one takes approximately forty-five minutes. Each one drains about a pint of blood. Sometimes more when Dr. Crane gets nervous and forgets to check the bag.

I'm no doctor. But I can do math.

And the math says I should be dead.

"Dr. Crane?"

He flinches. "Yes?"

"Why does Liora need my blood specifically? I thought there were blood banks. Donors. Compatible matches."

Silence.

His hands stop shaking. For a moment, he goes completely still. Then he reaches for the blood bag and turns it away from me, hiding the side I could see.

"Your blood type is rare. You know this."

"I know my blood type is O negative. I also know that's the universal donor type. Anyone can receive my blood." I pause. My voice is hoarse, barely a whisper. "But I can't receive anyone else's. So why does Liora need me specifically?"

He doesn't answer.

I watch his shoulders rise and fall. Rise and fall. Like he's trying to breathe through something heavy.

"You should rest," he says finally. "You'll feel better after."

I always feel worse after. He knows this. I know this. We both know this.

But I don't say anything. I never do.

Because speaking up has never helped me. Not with my mother, not with my father, not with my brother. Not with anyone.

I learned that lesson when I was seven and I told my mother I was hungry and she told me to stop being selfish because Liora needed extra food for her delicate stomach. I learned it again when I was twelve and I asked my father why Liora got a new dress and I got nothing and he looked through me like I wasn't there. I learned it a hundred times in a hundred different ways until the lesson finally stuck.

I am not worth listening to.

I am not worth protecting.

I am not worth saving.

So I watch my blood drain into a bag for a girl who has never missed a meal in her life and I say nothing.

Through the wall, the laughter continues.

"Mother, do you think Sera will be well enough to attend the Solstice Ceremony?" Liora asks. Her voice carries perfectly through the thin wall. She's always had excellent projection.

"Don't worry about Sera," my mother replies. "She's strong. She'll be fine."

Strong.

That word again. My mother's favorite word for me. It's a convenient word. It means she doesn't have to feel guilty. It means she doesn't have to check on me. It means she can keep draining me dry and tell herself it's fine because I'm strong.

I wonder what she'll say when I'm dead.

Probably that I was strong right up until the end.

"She's been looking rather pale lately," Liora says. "I'm worried about her."

My hands clench into fists under the thin blanket.

She's worried. Liora is worried. Liora, who has spent six months watching me fade while she blooms. Liora, who has never once offered to skip a transfusion so I could rest. Liora, who wears my favorite dress and sits in my chair and takes my mother's love like she was born for it.

"Don't be silly," my mother says. "Sera is fine. She just needs to eat more iron. You know how picky she is."

Picky.

I haven't had a full meal in months. My portions have been shrinking since Liora arrived. First because Liora needed more food for her health. Then because Liora couldn't possibly eat alone. Then because Liora's needs always came first and mine... mine didn't matter at all.

I swallow hard and taste copper.

"You're looking peaky," Dr. Crane says suddenly. He's staring at my face now. The first time he's looked at me all night.

"I'm fine."

"You're not."

"Then why don't you stop?"

The words slip out before I can catch them. I don't mean to say it. I don't mean to challenge him. But I'm so tired. So impossibly, soul-crushingly tired.

His face does something complicated. Guilt and fear and something else. Something that looks almost like pity.

"I can't."

"Cannot or will not?"

"Both." He turns away. "Neither. It's complicated."

"Complicated."

I should stop. I know I should stop. But the anger that has been building in my chest for six months is starting to leak out of the cracks in my walls, and I can't seem to seal them.

"Complicated how? I'm tired all the time. I can barely sleep through the night. My heart races when I stand up. I can't climb stairs anymore without needing to rest. I haven't had a full meal in weeks and my mother calls me picky. My brother calls me dramatic. My father looks at me like I'm a ghost. And every time I do this, every time I give my blood to Liora, I feel a little bit closer to dying. So tell me, Dr. Crane. What is complicated about that?"

He's completely still now. The bag is halfway full. My vision is starting to blur at the edges.

"The transfusions are necessary."

"I know they are."

"For Liora."

"I know."

"She's not... she's not well."

"She's not well," I repeat. "But I am. Is that what you're saying? I'm strong, so it doesn't matter if I suffer?"

His silence is my answer.

I close my eyes. The darkness is a relief. It's easier than looking at him. Easier than seeing the guilt he refuses to act on. Easier than remembering that once, a long time ago, he was kind to me. When I was little and had a fever and he stayed by my side until morning. When I was injured and he bandaged my hand and told me I was brave.

Now he just drains me and looks away.

"Five more minutes," he says quietly.

I don't respond.

Through the wall, Liora's laughter rings out again. This time, it's joined by my mother's. They're laughing together about something I can't hear. Something that has nothing to do with me.

It never does.

I open my eyes and stare at the blood bag.

And that's when I see it.

A symbol. Drawn on the plastic. Dark ink that looks like it's been there for a while, faded by time or cleaning. I've never noticed it before, but now that I see it, I can't look away.

It's a circle. Inside the circle, a crescent moon. And around the moon, strange symbols I don't recognize. Symbols that make my skin crawl.

"Dr. Crane?"

He turns. "Yes?"

"What's that mark on the bag?"

His face changes. The nervousness disappears. The fear disappears. Instead, his expression goes blank. Completely blank. Like someone just erased him and drew a stranger in his place.

"What mark?"

"On the bag. The circle. The moon. What is it?"

He reaches for the bag and turns it away. His hands aren't shaking anymore. They're steady. Deliberate. He moves like a man who knows exactly what he's doing.

But I see it. I see the movement. I see him quickly turn the bag to hide the mark. I see his expression shift from blank to terrified.

He mutters something under his breath. It sounds like a prayer.

"Dr. Crane, what is that?"

"You're seeing things," he says. "It's the blood loss. You need to rest."

"I've seen it. It's there. What does it mean?"

He doesn't answer. He just watches the bag with an intensity that makes my stomach turn.

Three minutes. Two. One.

Finally, he pulls the needle from my arm. The pain is familiar now, almost comforting in a way that makes me sick. He presses a cloth to the wound and steps back.

"Stand up," he says.

"What?"

"Stand up. Slowly."

I try.

My legs give out almost immediately. I fall to my knees, then my hands, then my face. The floor is cold against my cheek.

"Dr. Crane..."

He doesn't help me. He steps over me, walks to the connecting door, and knocks three times.

Three times. That's the signal. I've heard it a thousand times before.

"The next donation is ready," he says.

I don't understand. I just gave blood. I just gave more than I can afford to lose. What does he mean the next donation?

The door opens.

Liora enters.

She's dressed in my favorite dress. The blue one with the small white flowers. The one our mother said was too pretty for me, that I should let Liora borrow it since she looked better in blue.

She's smiling. A soft, gentle smile that doesn't reach her eyes.

"Sera," she says kindly. "You look terrible. Did you give too much again? You really should be more careful."

I try to speak, but my mouth won't form words. I'm too weak. Too tired.

She walks toward me, her heels clicking against the floor. When she reaches me, she crouches down and looks into my eyes.

"He was supposed to wait," she murmurs. Her voice is quiet, almost gentle. "He was supposed to wait until the next full moon. But I couldn't wait anymore. You understand, don't you?"

I don't understand. I can't understand. I can barely think.

She reaches out and touches my cheek. Her fingers are warm. Alive. She's so alive and I'm so tired.

"Don't worry," she says. "It will be over soon."

She stands and turns to Dr. Crane.

"Let's do it," she says. "Let's finish this."

---