Chapter 7: Blood on the Healer's Hands

“The healer is dead.”

The words hit Lyra harder than the rejection ever had.  

Her knees buckled.  

Kael caught her before she hit the stone, his arm locking around her waist with the kind of speed that had nothing to do with thought. His fingers dug into her, possessive and automatic, like his body refused to let her fall even when his mind wanted to push her away.

Lyra barely felt it.  

Her mind was already fracturing.  

“No…” she whispered. “No, she can’t be…”

Kael’s jaw clenched until a vein stood out.  

“She was slaughtered.”

Cold terror poured through her veins, fast and freezing.  

The healer had known.  

About the pregnancy.  

About the fever that came at night, about the way Lyra’s senses sharpened when the moon rose, about the changes she didn’t understand and couldn’t explain.  

And now the only person who knew was dead.  

Someone was erasing everyone connected to her.

Kael pulled back first, his face snapping into that blank, lethal mask he wore when the world got too loud.  

“Stay here.”

Lyra grabbed his arm, nails biting through his sleeve. “I’m coming with you.”

“No.”

“You think I’ll sit alone while someone hunts me inside your castle?”

Kael’s eyes darkened, something ugly and self-directed flickering there.  

“My castle is the safest place for you.”

A bitter laugh escaped her.  

“Was it safe for the healer?”

Silence.  

That silence answered her.  

Kael looked furious—not at her, but at himself. And somehow that frightened her more than any snarl.  

Kael Ravencrest was a man who destroyed threats.  

But right now?  

He was losing control of everything.

Another explosion shook the walls. Distant screams bled through the stone.  

Kael cursed under his breath. “The rogues are still inside.”

“Then stop wasting time.”

For one brief second, Kael stared at her like he wanted to lock her in a vault and throw away the key. Then:  

“Stay behind me.”

The lower corridors reeked of blood and smoke.  

Pack warriors moved in frantic currents, dragging injured wolves toward the infirmary, their faces pale with fear. The moment Kael appeared, the hall parted. Nobody spoke. Nobody met his eyes.  

Their Alpha looked like a war that hadn’t finished bleeding.  

Blood crusted his shirt. The stab wound hadn’t closed fully. And the darkness in his eyes promised pain to anyone stupid enough to slow him down.

Lyra stayed close. Too close.  

She could feel every coil of tension in his body, every second he held back the beast clawing to get out.

Then they reached the healer’s chambers.  

Lyra stopped breathing.

Blood painted the walls in wide, brutal strokes. Furniture lay shattered, glass and herbs scattered across the floor like a storm had hit. In the center of it all, the healer lay still.  

Eyes open.  

Throat torn out.  

Lyra’s stomach twisted violently.  

“Oh God…”

Kael moved in front of her instantly, blocking the worst of it. Protecting her. Even now, even when she was the reason for this mess.  

That realization cut deeper than the sight.

He crouched slowly beside the body, his expression hardening with every second.  

“What?” Lyra whispered.

He pointed at the wall.  

Written in blood, jagged and deliberate:  

SHE BELONGS TO US.

Fear crawled up Lyra’s spine, cold and familiar.  

Kael’s voice came out low and lethal. “Who are ‘they’?”

No one answered.  

Then Damon burst in, breathing hard. “Alpha.”

Kael stood instantly. “What now?”

“We captured one of the rogues alive.”

Silence fell, sharp and expectant.  

Kael’s eyes turned to flint. “Where?”

“The underground cells.”

Kael turned to Lyra immediately.  

“You stay here.”

“No chance.”

“Lyra—”

“I’m done being hidden while people die around me.”

The fire in her voice caught him off guard. For a long second he just looked at her, and something dangerous flickered in his face.  

Respect.  

Desire.  

Possession.  

“Fine,” he said quietly. “But you do exactly what I say.”

The dungeon was colder than the surface.  

Screams echoed off stone, bouncing back until it felt like the walls themselves were screaming. Guards dragged a bloodied rogue into the interrogation room, chains rattling, and the man laughed through broken teeth like he was enjoying it.

Kael entered first.  

Silence followed him.  

He didn’t need tools. He was the threat.  

Kael grabbed the rogue by the throat and slammed him against the wall hard enough to crack stone.  

“Who sent you?”

The rogue only smiled, blood dribbling down his chin.  

“You’re already too late.”

Kael slammed him again.  

“Answer me.”

The rogue’s eyes slid past Kael, locking onto Lyra. His smile widened, feverish, almost worshipful.  

“There she is.”

Fear twisted in Lyra’s stomach, cold and sharp.  

The rogue’s voice dropped to a whisper.  

“The lost bloodline.”

Kael’s grip tightened until the rogue choked.  

“What does that mean?”

The rogue laughed, wet and broken.  

“You still don’t know what your mate is?”

“Stop calling her that,” Kael growled, instinctive and furious.

The rogue’s smile deepened.  

“But she is.”  

His gaze never left Lyra.  

“Our king has searched for you for years.”

King?  

Lyra’s pulse stuttered.  

Kael noticed. Of course he noticed.  

“You know something.”

“No,” she whispered.  

Lie.  

And Kael knew it.

Before he could press her, the rogue started choking violently. Blood poured from his mouth.  

Damon stepped back. “What the hell—”

The rogue laughed, the sound wet and wrong.  

“He’s here.”

Kael’s eyes narrowed. “Who?”

The rogue looked at Lyra one last time.  

“The one your mother feared.”

Then his body ignited.  

Lyra screamed.  

The guards stumbled back as flames devoured him in seconds, hot and unnatural. No one touched him. No one could. When it died, only ash remained on the stone floor.

Silence filled the dungeon. Heavy. Wrong.  

Then slowly, Kael turned to Lyra. His gaze was dark, dangerous, and asking for a truth she wasn’t ready to give.  

“What aren’t you telling me?”

Lyra opened her mouth.  

But another voice answered first.  

“She’s afraid you’ll hate her even more.”

Everyone froze.  

A woman stood at the end of the corridor, dressed in black, pale as moonlight and calm as a grave.  

Lyra’s heart stopped.  

Because she recognized her.  

Impossible.  

Her mother was dead.  

Wasn’t she.