Chapter 18

Hidden Wounds

Grace's POV

The first hint that something was wrong came when Jace shifted in his sleep for the third time in ten minutes. Each movement was followed by a soft, unconscious sound of pain that made my wolf pace restlessly in my chest. I'd been watching him for the past hour as dawn light gradually filled the hospital room, noting the way his breathing had become increasingly shallow and labored.

At first, I'd attributed it to nightmares—the kind of trauma-induced sleep disturbances I knew all too well from my own dark nights. But as I studied his restless form more carefully, I noticed something that made my blood run cold.

There was a dark stain spreading across the back of his torn shirt, fresh blood seeping through the fabric in a pattern that suggested an ongoing wound rather than residual bleeding from treated injuries.

"Jace," I called softly, not wanting to startle him awake but needing to assess the situation. When he didn't respond, I moved closer to the cot, my medical training from the past three years kicking in automatically.

Grandfather had insisted that all Silver Moon pack members, especially those in leadership positions, receive comprehensive first aid training. At the time, I'd thought it was excessive preparation. Now, as I carefully lifted the edge of Jace's bloodstained shirt, I was grateful for every hour I'd spent learning to treat combat injuries.

What I found underneath made my breath catch in my throat.

A silver claw—not a scratch or a shallow cut, but an actual piece of silver weaponry—was embedded between his shoulder blades, angled in such a way that it had missed vital organs but was slowly working its way deeper with each movement. The wound around it was inflamed and angry, the kind of infection that silver caused in werewolf physiology when left untreated.

"Oh, you idiot," I whispered, my hands hovering over the injury as I assessed the damage. Silver poisoning explained the exhaustion that went beyond simple grief and stress. It explained the way he'd been swaying on his feet, the tremor in his hands, the pale cast to his skin that I'd attributed to guilt and sleeplessness.

How long had he been carrying this wound? How had the medical staff missed it during his initial treatment?

The answer came to me as I studied the position of the embedded claw. It was hidden beneath his left shoulder blade, in a spot that would have been difficult to see during a standard examination, especially if Jace had been focused on his father's condition rather than his own injuries. In the chaos following the attack, with Alpha Storm critically wounded and multiple casualties to treat, a hidden silver fragment could easily have been overlooked.

And Jace, consumed by guilt and responsibility, would never have mentioned his own pain when his father was fighting for his life.

The silver was killing him slowly, poisoning his system while he sat vigil beside his father's bed. If left untreated much longer, it could cause permanent damage—or worse.

I stood carefully, trying not to jostle the cot as I moved toward the door. I needed Dr. Martinez immediately, needed proper medical equipment and sterile conditions to remove the embedded weapon. But as my hand touched the door handle, Jace's voice stopped me.

"Grace?" His words were slurred with exhaustion and pain, but conscious. "What's wrong?"

I turned back to find him trying to sit up, his face gray with the effort. "Don't move," I said sharply, using the Alpha command voice that had taken me years to perfect. "You have silver poisoning."

His eyes widened slightly, but he didn't seem surprised by the diagnosis. "You found it."

"You knew?" The question came out harsher than I intended, colored by a mixture of anger and fear that I didn't want to examine too closely. "You've been sitting here for three days with a silver claw in your back, and you knew?"

Jace's attempt at a shrug was cut short by obvious pain. "Suspected. Could feel something was wrong, but Dad needed—"

"Your father needed his son alive and functional, not slowly dying from silver poisoning while playing the martyr." I moved back to the cot, my hands automatically checking his pulse and temperature. Both were elevated, his skin hot with the fever that came from his body fighting the foreign metal. "How long have you been running a fever?"

"Since the attack. Maybe longer." He was trying to minimize it, but I could see the admission cost him. "Grace, you don't have to—"

"I have to do whatever I decide to do," I cut him off. "And right now, I'm deciding to keep you from dying of your own stupidity."

I was already moving toward the emergency call button beside Alpha Storm's bed when Jace's hand caught my wrist. His grip was weaker than it should have been, another sign of how badly the silver was affecting him.

"Please," he said quietly. "Don't make a scene. The pack is already terrified about Dad. If they think I'm dying too..."

He was right, and I hated that he was right. Storm pack was balanced on a knife's edge, their leadership structure critically damaged. News that their future Alpha was also gravely injured could trigger the kind of panic that would make them vulnerable to their enemies.

But I also couldn't let him die from some misguided sense of duty.

"Fine," I said, pulling out my phone. "But I'm calling Dr. Martinez privately. And you're going to let him treat you without argument."

"Grace—"

"Without argument," I repeated, my tone brooking no discussion. "You can play the stoic leader all you want after we get that silver out of you. Right now, you're a patient, and I'm the only person in this room with the authority to make medical decisions for you."

It was a stretch of the truth—I had no official authority over Jace or his medical care. But he was weakened enough by pain and silver poisoning that my Alpha presence was affecting him more than it normally would. His wolf recognized the strength in my voice and responded to it instinctively.

Dr. Martinez answered on the second ring, his voice alert despite the early hour. "Grace? Is everything all right?"

"I need you in Alpha Storm's room immediately," I said quietly. "Bring surgical supplies and something to counteract silver poisoning. And Doctor? Discretion is essential."

"I'll be right there."

I ended the call and turned back to Jace, who was watching me with an expression I couldn't quite read. Pain, certainly, but also something that looked like wonder.

"Why?" he asked simply.

The question hung between us, loaded with everything we'd never said to each other. Why was I helping him? Why did I care if he lived or died? Why had I come here at all when I could have stayed safely in Silver Moon territory and let Storm pack collapse?

"Because," I said, settling back into the chair beside his cot, "someone has to keep you alive long enough to clean up this mess. Your pack needs leadership, and like it or not, you're what they have."

It wasn't the whole truth, but it was all I was willing to give him right now. The rest—the way my chest tightened when I thought about him dying, the protective instincts I'd thought were long buried, the part of me that still remembered loving him—that was mine to deal with.

"The silver's been in there for three days," I continued, forcing myself to focus on practical matters. "You're lucky it didn't hit anything vital, but the infection is spreading. Dr. Martinez will need to remove it surgically."

"Will it..." Jace's voice was getting weaker as the conversation took what little energy he had left. "Will there be permanent damage?"

"I don't know," I answered honestly. "Silver poisoning affects everyone differently. But you're strong, and we caught it before it reached your vital organs. That's something."

Dr. Martinez arrived within minutes, his medical bag in hand and his face grim with professional concern. He took one look at Jace's condition and immediately began preparing for emergency surgery.

"How did we miss this?" he muttered as he examined the embedded claw.

"Because your patient is an idiot who prioritized everyone's needs over his own," I said bluntly. "Can you remove it here, or do we need to move him to surgery?"

"Here, if we're being discrete. But I'll need your help—someone to monitor his vitals while I work."

I nodded, already moving to assist. As Dr. Martinez began the delicate process of removing the silver weapon, I found myself holding Jace's hand, offering what comfort I could as he endured the procedure without anesthesia—another concession to keeping the situation quiet.

His fingers tightened around mine as the doctor worked, and for just a moment, I let myself remember what it had been like when we were supposed to mean everything to each other.

Then the silver claw came free with a wet sound that made my stomach turn, and the immediate crisis took precedence over old memories and complicated feelings.

Jace was alive. For now, that was enough.