Chapter 7: Return to the Cursed Land

"No one is going to tear us apart, sweetheart. No one."

I cupped Liam's small cheeks with my cold hands. His silver eyes trembled with unshed tears, reflecting the sheer terror rattling his young wolf's instincts.

Theo crossed the room from the couch, dropping to his knees beside me and wrapping a sturdy arm around Liam's shoulders. His steady fingers rubbed his nephew's back, trying to ground the boy and ease the stifling tension between us.

"Listen to your mother, Liam," Theo coaxed in a low, soothing tone. "She's the greatest healer on this continent. She's going there to save a life, not to surrender."

Beyond the sheer curtains of the front window, twin amber headlights cut through the thick Oakhaven fog. The deep rumble of a heavy diesel engine rattled the glass panes, followed by the squeal of brakes as three armored black SUVs pulled up right outside the wooden courtyard gate.

Embossed starkly across the door of the lead vehicle was a fanged silver wolf head. The Thorne Clan guards had arrived.

I pressed one last kiss to Liam's forehead, breathing in the clean scent of his soap to steel my resolve. With a deliberate, steady motion, I gently unclasped his small hands, rose to my feet, and took hold of the metal medical case on the floor.

"Deadbolt the door the second I'm out, Theo," I murmured without looking back.

Two hulking warriors clad in black tactical vests flanked the porch steps. They offered no pleasantries. One of them simply hauled open the rear passenger door with stiff efficiency, gesturing for me to get inside.

The moment the heavy door slammed shut, the vehicle surged forward, tearing away from my family's sanctuary.

The drive through the border pine forests passed in suffocating silence. The crunch of tires over gravel was the only sound in the cabin. Beyond the tinted glass, the night fog thickened, weaving through towering pines that stood like iron bars against the dark.

An hour later, the convoy slowed as it neared the main gates of Thorne territory.

Thirty-foot iron gates rose out of a jagged stone gorge, crowned with high-voltage concertina wire. Up in the guard towers, sweeping searchlights flooded our vehicle, verifying authorization codes before massive pulley chains groaned, dragging the heavy steel barrier upward.

My eyes fixed on the rain-slicked asphalt just outside the guardhouse.

Six years ago, right on that cracked shoulder of the road, my bloodied, post-labor body had been tossed into the mud like a bag of trash. That was where Vivienne had shredded the contract check and spat in my face while the storm raged.

The scar on my bottom lip flared with an old, phantom throb. My fingers clamped down on the handle of the metal case, digging in to keep the boiling fury in my chest from spilling over.

I was back. But this time, I wasn't crossing these cursed gates as a disposable surrogate to be crushed underfoot. I was returning as the sole arbiter of life and death for their heir.

The motorcade wound up the spiraling road toward the mountain crest where Thorne Castle loomed.

The ancient Gothic fortress looked far bleaker than I remembered. There were no festive torchlights, no bustling servants in the courtyards. The rows of second- and third-floor windows were completely dark, and the guards patrolling the ramparts wore black armbands around their left sleeves—the clan's grim mark of mourning for a young master they expected to lose.

The SUV came to a halt in the circular drive of crushed black stone.

A broad-shouldered man in a charcoal military trench coat waited beneath the marble portico. Rowan Fletcher, Beta of the Thorne Clan and Kaelen's most trusted right hand. His features were cut from granite, marred by a thin scar tracing along his right cheekbone.

The car door opened. I stepped out with measured grace, pulling my black wool coat tighter against the biting mountain wind.

"Doctor Elora Vance?" Rowan stepped forward, his cold, analytical gaze sweeping over me from head to toe.

"That's me," I replied, keeping my voice level, crisp, and authoritative.

Rowan didn't bother with noble pleasantries. He merely snapped two fingers toward the pair of uniformed guards flanking him.

"Place your case on the inspection table," Rowan commanded, pointing to a stone slab near the pillar. "Clan security protocols mandate that all outside equipment be vetted before entering the inner keep."

Without arguing, I set the metal kit onto the cold marble surface and calmly popped the latches.

Rowan stepped up, pulling on thin leather gloves before going through every compartment. His practiced hands turned over the set of silver acupuncture needles, surgical shears, empty vials, and rows of glass ampoules filled with dense herbal extracts.

He picked up a small glass bottle containing the silver-root suppressant extract, cracked the stopper, and waved a hand over the opening toward his nose. His wolf instincts quickly dissected the chemical notes inside.

My pulse gave a wary stutter against my ribs, but my expression remained an impenetrable mask.

"A concentrated antiseptic extract formulated with belladonna and neutral sulfur," I explained before he could ask. "Used for purging surgical tools of spiritual toxin residue. Feel free to run a litmus test if you have doubts."

Rowan recapped the bottle, staring down at me intently. His wolf senses evidently picked up nothing of the sweet vanilla tied to my true scent; the draught I had downed this afternoon had sealed it away behind a heavy, sterile veil of rubbing alcohol and medical herbs.

"We cannot afford to take risks, Doctor Vance," Rowan replied flatly, snapping the case shut and sliding it back across the stone. "Young Master Leon's condition is our clan's absolute priority tonight."

"I didn't come here to play clan politics, Mr. Fletcher," I countered, taking hold of the handle. "I came to save my patient before that three-month window turns into a funeral."

The corner of Rowan's mouth twitched, caught off guard by the sharp authority in my voice. Without another word, the Beta turned and gestured for me to follow him through the grand double doors of the great hall.

The rhythmic strike of our boots echoed against the polished black marble.

The tension inside the castle was suffocating. Servants scuttled past with their heads bowed low, avoiding eye contact. A few maids were dabbing at red, swollen eyes, clutching silver trays of damp washcloths and cooling herbal teas.

Every stone within these walls reeked of despair. Leon's fading life had cast the entire clan into deep mourning.

We turned into the castle's west wing, walking down a long, deep-crimson-carpeted gallery illuminated by low-burning wall sconces. Here, the air turned dense and frigid, choked with the stale stench of failed fever remedies and the frantic, dying spasms of wild spiritual energy.

Rowan halted before a pair of towering black-oak doors carved with the snarling likeness of a fanged wolf. Two elite sentries armed with silver spears snapped to attention, offering a crisp salute to their Beta.

Rowan rested his hand on the brass latch, turning his head to look back at me with grim warning in his eyes.

Leaning in slightly, his voice dropped so low it was almost lost to the draft whistling through the corridor:

"Watch yourself, Doctor Vance. Our Alpha has already executed the last three healers who failed to touch the Young Master."