Chapter 2

Jessica slapped me across the face the moment she heard my advice.

Her entire body trembled with rage as she screamed at me:

"Heartless! How dare you suggest a transfusion? He's just a pup! Do you want to kill his wolf on purpose?!"

Who says pups can't receive transfusions?

Before I could even explain, someone else chimed in sarcastically:

"Wow, how miraculous—you've recovered so quickly! Just a while ago, you said your wolf was too weak to even get out of bed. And now, you're suddenly full of energy, insisting on a transfusion? Let me guess—it's all because of the money!"

I had no strength left to argue—just a bitter, helpless smile curved on my lips.

The pup began writhing in bed, crying out in pain.

Jessica immediately panicked, her arrogance crumbling into helplessness. She finally gave in.

Clenching my jaw, I pushed through the pounding pain in my head. I forced myself to focus, cleared my mind as best I could, inserted the needle into the boy's arm, and administered the herbs.

I handed over the fever-reducing herbs I had brought from the infirmary, speaking as calmly as I could:

"The transfusion and herbs come to 30 USD."

To my surprise, this perfectly standard procedure sparked yet another argument.

Jessica jumped from her grandson's bedside and stormed over to me, her face red with fury. I could sense the storm boiling inside her wolf.

"30 USD? Are you robbing me?! Look at these herbs—they're not even rare or valuable! How dare you charge that much?!"

I tried to explain, but I couldn't even get a word in before someone else shouted:

"Of course she charges whatever she wants—she's the only healer in this whole pack! Her salary depends on us, the patients! Don't forget that! Everything here is under her control!"

Hearing his words, I shook my head helplessly and let out a long sigh.

The Moon Goddess knew how little money I had earned since I came here. I only ever charged the most basic fees for these poor patients—more often than not, I paid the extra costs out of my own pocket.

And yet, they still believed I was charging whatever I wanted, like some greedy merchant.

I tried to explain patiently, "The fees I collect are all set by the Werewolf Medical Centre. If you don't believe me, you're free to investigate."

"Investigate where? In the end, aren't you the one calling all the shots?"

"Exactly!" came a familiar voice from the crowd.

I looked up and saw Sara—nearly forty—standing there with a sarcastic smile tugging at her lips.

She sneered and continued, "Last time, I probably just had a cold, but she insisted I needed an infusion and herbs. She exaggerated my illness, forced me into the infirmary, and probably made a fortune off me!"

My heart dropped.

I remembered clearly—just a few weeks ago, she'd stopped me on the street, saying she felt unwell. I checked her symptoms and realized it was a mild heart attack. But she refused to believe it—she was convinced it was just a cold and only needed some basic herbs.

I knew if it dragged on, her wolf might not survive.

So I persuaded her—again and again—until she finally agreed to come to the infirmary before it got worse. She thanked me at the time, even smiled with gratitude.

But now? She thought I had done it just for money?

The sting of betrayal was so sharp it almost took my breath away.

My heart wasn't racing from fear, but from something far colder—utter disappointment. My lips quivered as I looked at them, the words catching in my throat like thorns.

I had given them everything—my time, my strength, my blood. Yet this was all they saw in me.

"I've never charged any of you more than the bare minimum," I whispered, barely able to keep my voice steady. "Not for herbs, not for treatment. My salary is only 500 dollars a month…"

But even as the words left my lips, I knew they wouldn't matter. Their eyes were full of distrust, not gratitude. And in that moment, something inside me broke—quietly, without sound, like a thread snapping in the dark.

But instead of calming them, my words only sparked more venom.

Someone stepped forward, eyes narrowed in suspicion, and snapped sharply:

"Only you know how much commission you've pocketed! Do you really expect us to believe your salary's that low? You must be hiding the truth!"

He grabbed a pouch of herbs from the table and held it up like evidence in a trial.

"Look at this! Just an ordinary herb, and you charged me at least 10 bucks for it. We all know it's cheap stuff. You must have made at least five dollars off it—off me!"

I felt like something had lodged in my throat. I couldn't breathe, couldn't speak. I knew there was no point explaining anymore. They had already decided I was a liar, a thief. They would never believe the truth—that the prices weren't set by me, but by the Werewolf Medical Centre.

But it didn't end there.

Another voice rose with biting sarcasm:

"What a cushy job you've got! Sleeping all day in your den, getting up in the afternoon like some pampered noble—still collecting your full pay!"

"Exactly! No wonder you didn't stay in your own pack—it's rich and powerful. But you chose to come here, to this remote dump of a pack, where no one supervises you. You came just to lie in bed and do nothing!"

Their words hit harder than claws. My chest felt cold—so cold—and my voice came out hoarse and cracked as I used what little strength I had left:

"I... I ended up like this because I donated blood. I wasn't lying in bed for pleasure. I wasn't—"

But I didn't get to finish.

Someone cut me off, voice dripping with contempt:

"You've got all the excuses in the world. You claim you donated blood—but we didn't see it. And even if you did, how do we know this sick act isn't just another lie?"