Chapter 11

Royal’s POV

"He actually did it," I whispered, the words catching in my dry throat.

The air felt like it had been sucked out of the rooftop. Philip had used that crushing Alpha weight to shove me aside, and in that split second, his mind was set. He was going to end her. By the time I forced my leaden limbs to move and scrambled off the concrete, the space in his arms was empty.

She was gone. Rilla was falling.

A blur of silver and black wind whipped past my face, nearly knocking me down again. I didn't stop to think. I lunged for the edge of the boundary wall, my heart hammering a frantic, uneven rhythm against my ribs. I didn't want this. No matter what she did, I wasn't ready to see her shattered on the pavement below.

Romilly was right at my heels, his breathing coming in ragged, panicked bursts. We hit the stone ledge at the same time, both of us bracing for the sight of a broken girl in the shadows of the alley.

Instead, I saw Ripley.

The man was a lunatic. He was dangling off the side of the building, one hand clamped onto the stone lip with a white-knuckled grip. His boots were braced hard against the vertical brick, muscles standing out like iron cables in his neck. His other hand was locked around a thin, pale wrist.

He had her.

That rush of wind I felt earlier wasn't a breeze. It was Ripley moving at a speed that defied logic, throwing himself over the edge to catch her before she hit terminal velocity. For a fleeting second, the irritation I usually felt for him vanished. He didn't look like a reckless thug. He looked like a savior.

If his grip had slipped, or if his timing had been off by a fraction of a second, they both would have been red stains on the street. Even a shifter might not walk away from a drop like that without being a literal shell for the rest of his life.

Down below, Rilla gave a weak, pathetic tug, trying to pull her arm back. She wanted to fall. She wanted it to be over. But Ripley’s fingers were like a vice.

"Sorry to ruin the moment, Philip," Ripley shouted up. His voice carried that familiar, grating smugness that usually made me want to punch him. "But she stays alive. At least until I am done having my fun. Consider this me resigning from your command for the day."

Philip stood a few feet away from the ledge. His jaw was set so tight I thought his teeth might crack. His hands were curled into trembling fists. He looked like a man who was one word away from a massacre.

"Philip, listen to him," I said, stepping toward our Alpha before he could do something we couldn't take back. "I am on Ripley's side. You can't just throw her away like trash."

Philip’s eyes snapped to mine. The gold in his iris was bleeding into the black, full of a predatory rage that made my skin crawl. He looked at me like I was a traitor.

"Think about Rosamund," I added, my voice dropping to a desperate plea. "Kill her now, and we lose everything we need for the cure. Just breathe. Please."

"The treatment is ready, Alpha," Romilly added, his voice shaking but urgent. "We are at the final stage. We need her."

Romilly knew the buttons to push. Mentioning Rosamund was the only thing that could ground Philip when the wolf took over. Philip didn't say a word. He didn't even look at the ledge again. He just turned on his heel and walked toward the roof access door, his cape snapping in the wind. He left us there like we didn't exist.

I let out a breath I felt like I'd been holding for an hour. I leaned over the wall and looked at the madman hanging there.

"Enough theatrics," I grumbled. "Get up here and give her to me."

Ripley didn't follow instructions. He never did. He hauled himself up just enough to hook an elbow over the ledge, then he swung Rilla’s limp body over the wall. He didn't place her down. He tossed her. She hit the rooftop with a sickening thud, rolling a few feet like a discarded doll.

Ripley vaulted over the wall a second later, landing on his feet with the grace of a mountain cat. He looked energized, like the brush with death had given him a shot of pure adrenaline. He loved the gamble. He loved seeing if the world was brave enough to kill him.

Romilly and I scrambled over to Rilla. She wasn't moving.

"She looks dead already," Romilly muttered, his face pale as he knelt in the grit.

"Fix her," I snapped. I knelt on her other side. She was gray. Her breathing was so shallow I had to watch her throat just to see the tiny movements. She was fading out, one second at a time.

Romilly pressed his fingers to her neck, his brow furrowed in deep concentration. "The pulse is thready. I think the broken ribs are shifting. I need an X-ray and a stabilized environment immediately or—"

"Forget the tests," Ripley interrupted. He walked over and stood over us, his shadow blocking out the sun. He looked down at her with nothing but cold curiosity. "I want to see if a pureblood is actually as tough as the stories say. Does she really die from a few cracked bones?"

"Ripley, if we don't act, she's gone," Romilly warned. "She might be past the point of no return already."

Ripley didn't argue. He just drew back his heavy boot and delivered a sharp kick to her ribs.

Rilla let out a ragged, wet groan. Her eyes didn't open, but her body flinched.

"There," Ripley said, a dark smirk tugging at his lips. "She's still ticking. Pack her up. We're leaving."

"We are treating her first," I said, standing up to block his path. I didn't care how fast he was. "We bought her together. We are a pack, Ripley. You don't get the only vote."

Ripley sighed, looking bored. "Fine. You want to play doctor, and I want her out of this hospital. We do both. Romilly, get your bags. She is coming back to the estate. She stays in our sight from now on."

I nodded. It made sense. If we left her here, she would just find another way to try and kill herself. At the house, we could lock the doors. We could watch every breath she took.

"We are taking her home," I told Romilly.

Romilly looked hesitant. "Moving her is a massive risk. I need monitors, a sterile field, oxygen. I can't just set that up in a guest room."

"Romilly," Ripley’s voice went deathly quiet. It was the tone he used right before he drew blood. "I know you two have history. I know you remember when things were different. But if you start picking her side over ours, I will treat you like the enemy. I don't care how long we've been friends."

Romilly went stiff. The color drained from his face, and for a second, he looked caught. He knew Ripley wasn't joking. Ripley was the type of person who enjoyed the act of punishing people he cared about. It proved he had no weaknesses.

"Fine," Romilly finally whispered. "But give me a real room. Somewhere clean. Not some damp cell in the basement. If you want her to live long enough to be useful, she needs a hygienic environment."

Ripley laughed, and it was a cold, sharp sound. "A clean room? I was thinking the stables. She’d fit right in with the other animals."

"If you put her in a stable, find another doctor," Romilly snapped, finding a spark of nerve. "I won't waste my energy on a patient you intend to rot. My time is better spent on people who have a future."

I stepped between them before the tension turned into a brawl.

"Ripley, go. I'll handle the transport. Philip told you to check the perimeter security anyway. Do your job."

Ripley rolled his shoulders, his interest in the conversation clearly evaporated. "She doesn't need security. She can barely breathe. I'm going back to the gym. This was a waste of a morning."

He walked away without looking back, leaving a heavy silence in his wake.

I stayed with Romilly while he stabilized her in the room. We waited for the private ambulance and the portable equipment to be loaded. When they finally wheeled her out on the stretcher, she looked like a ghost. She was so thin and fragile that I felt a strange, sharp pang in my chest.

I followed the ambulance in my own car, watching the red lights flicker against the trees as we drove toward the estate. My mind was a mess of memories and anger.

"Can I ever really let go of what you did?" I asked the empty car.