Chapter 6

Royal’s POV

"She is barely pulling air into her lungs," I said, looking down at the wreck of a girl on the pavement.

Blood acted like a mask, coating her lips and drying in dark streaks across her skin. Her clothes were nothing but red-stained rags clinging to a frame that looked more like a corpse than a living woman. I didn't want to touch her. I didn't want to feel the heat of her skin or the faint pulse in her neck. But I knelt anyway, hooking my arms under her knees and back.

"If Philip didn't need you, I would leave you for the crows," I muttered.

I wasn't sure if she could hear me through the haze of her pain. I didn't really care. I just needed her to understand that her life was a debt, not a gift.

"Ripley wants you dead, and he is right to want it," I continued, my voice flat. "You deserve nothing. But I won't let Philip lose Rosamund because of your mess."

I stood up, lifting her. She was terrifyingly light. There was no substance to her, just bone and bad memories. I shoved down the sudden spark of pity that tried to flicker in my chest. Pity was for the innocent. She had spent years earning every ounce of misery she was currently drowning in.

I carried her toward the SUVs. We had two. One was for Ripley and Robbie to finish their business with the traffickers. The other was our ride out. Rory was already in the driver's seat, his fingers drumming a restless rhythm on the steering wheel. Philip sat beside him, staring straight through the windshield like a man made of stone.

Rory looked at the girl in my arms and sneered. "Don't you dare put that garbage on my leather. I just had this car detailed."

He hit a button on the dash. The trunk popped open with a mechanical whir.

I didn't argue. I walked to the back, laid her limp body in the cramped cargo space, and slammed the door shut. The metal thud felt final. I climbed into the back seat, and Rory floored it. He drove like a man trying to outrun a ghost, taking corners so hard I could hear her body sliding against the plastic lining of the trunk.

We pulled up to the private wing of the family hospital. This place was Philip’s territory, a clean, quiet fortress where secrets stayed buried. Romilly was already on the curb, his white coat flapping in the wind. He was an old beta with more wrinkles than hair, but he was the only doctor we trusted with our kind. He knew how to fix a wolf without asking questions that led to police reports.

"What did those two idiots do this time?" Romilly asked, crossing his arms as we hopped out. "If Ripley broke his hand punching a wall again, I am charging double."

"It isn't Ripley," I said, walking toward the rear of the vehicle.

The orderlies arrived with a gurney just as I popped the trunk. They pulled her out, and for a second, the world went silent. She looked even worse under the harsh LED streetlights. Her skin was a sickly grey, and her breathing had turned into a wet, rattling sound.

"Who is this?" Romilly stepped closer, squinting. "The pureblood from your text?"

I nodded. Philip didn't wait around for the conversation. He turned on his heel and walked toward the elevators without a word. I knew where he was going. Rosamund was upstairs, fading away, and he couldn't stand to be near the girl who was supposed to be her cure.

"Just fix her," I told the doctor. "And run the labs. I need proof."

Romilly leaned over the gurney to get a better look at her face. He froze. His eyes went wide, his mouth hanging open as he recognized the girl from the news and the nightmares of our pack.

"Is that...?"

"Move, Romilly," I snapped. "Check the blood. Now."

The staff rushed her inside. The swinging doors clicked shut, leaving me and Rory in the sterile quiet of the hallway. I slumped into a plastic chair and rubbed the tension out of my neck.

"You aren't going to check on Philip?" I asked, looking at Rory.

He leaned against the wall, checking his fingernails. "I have seen enough of that family today. Rosamund’s face is just as annoying as this girl’s."

Rory never hid his spite. He hated Rosamund for being a burden, and he hated Rilla for being a traitor. To him, they were both stains on our reputation. He especially hated Rilla. Back when we were younger, he wouldn't even stand in the same room as her. We never quite knew why his grudge ran so deep, but it was there, simmering under his skin. He only tolerated them because they were tied to Philip and Rowena.

Rowena. The name was a bitter pill. She was the sister Ripley and Robbie had lost. The girl Rilla had murdered.

An hour dragged by before Romilly returned. He looked exhausted and angry. He held a clipboard like a weapon.

"What is wrong with you people?" Romilly hissed, his voice trembling. "How can you leave a girl in that condition? She has broken ribs, internal bleeding, and signs of prolonged starvation. Even for a pureblood, this is barbaric."

"She is lucky she can still bleed," I said, standing up to meet his gaze. "Does the blood match?"

Romilly sighed, the fight draining out of him. He handed me the chart. "It matches. She is a pureblood. High concentration, no dilution. It is a miracle she is alive at all."

Rory didn't even look over. He just pushed off the wall and started walking toward the exit. He had raised the doubt, and now that he was proven wrong, he acted like the conversation was beneath him.

"How long until she can stand?" I asked Romilly.

"Days," the doctor replied. "Maybe a week before she is stable. Her body is trying to heal, but she has no reserves left. She is empty."

"We don't have a week," I muttered.

Philip appeared at the end of the hall, moving like a shadow. I held out the report. He took the paper, his eyes scanning the data points and the chemical breakdowns. His face didn't change. He looked like a man staring at a grocery list, not the lifeblood of the girl he once claimed to love. He handed the paper back and stared at the wall.

"For Rosamund," I said softly, trying to ground him.

He didn't answer.

The heavy front doors swung open, and the twins marched in. Ripley and Robbie were covered in fresh spatters of red. They smelled like copper and woodsmoke. They looked satisfied in a way that made my stomach turn.

"Those hunters were stubborn," Ripley said, wiping a smear of blood from his cheek. "Even after I took their fingers, they kept swearing she was the real deal."

I held up the lab results. "They were telling the truth. She is the pureblood."

Ripley snatched the paper, his eyes lighting up with a predatory glow. He crumpled the report into a ball, a jagged, mean laugh bubbling up in his throat.

"That is perfect," Ripley whispered. "That means she can take a lot more than a human could. I can break her over and over, and she will just keep waking up for more."

He looked at Robbie, who gave a slow, dark nod. Robbie didn't talk much, but his silence was always more violent than Ripley’s screaming.

"You did the right thing, Royal," Ripley said, grinning at me. "Killing her in that alley would have been too quick. This is going to be much more fun."

I watched them walk toward the recovery ward. They weren't looking for a patient. They were looking for a toy. As long as she provided what Rosamund needed, I wasn't going to stop them.

"Keep her alive until the transfer," I told Romilly.