Chapter 5

Chapter 5

"Alpha Morrison, did you hear what I said? Your mate could die. At minimum, she'll be severely weakened for months, possibly years. She'll need to stop working, stop all strenuous activities. The toll on her body will be immense."

"I heard you." Matthew's voice was steel now. "But Mia will die without this, correct? The Feral Lupin Phase 2 will eventually—"

"Eventually, yes. But we're talking years, not months. With proper management, Ms. Mia Roberts could live a relatively normal life for quite some time. This cure isn't urgent—"

"But it would cure her completely."

"Yes, but—"

"Then we do it." Final. Absolute. The Alpha voice he used when giving commands that wouldn't be questioned. "Bianca will understand. She's a healer—she took an oath to save lives. And if she doesn't..." He paused, and I heard something cold enter his voice. "Then I'll owe her. I'll give her whatever she wants. But I won't risk Mia's chance at being completely safe, at living without this disease hanging over her."

He'd never said my name with such casual dismissal before. Like I was a tool to be used, a resource to be negotiated with. Not a person. Not his wife. Not the mother of his child.

Certainly not someone whose life mattered as much as Mia's comfort.

"I need to consult with your Luna directly," Dr. Hartwick said, his voice uncomfortable now. "Medical ethics require—"

"I'll handle Bianca. You just prepare for the procedure. How long will the treatments take?"

"Six to nine months of intensive sessions. Three times a week, minimum. Each session will last several hours and will leave your mate extremely weak. She'll need bedrest between treatments, careful monitoring. The strain on her body will be—"

"She's strong. She'll manage." Matthew's voice was distant now, already moving on to logistics.

"What else do we need?"

I couldn't hear the rest. Couldn't process the rest. Because my legs had finally remembered how to move, and I was stumbling backward, into Mrs. Finch's apartment, closing the door as silently as I could manage with hands that shook so hard I nearly dropped the knob.

Mrs. Finch was asleep now, her breathing soft and labored. I stood there in her dim apartment, surrounded by photos of a life well-lived, and tried to remember how to breathe myself.

He'd do it anyway. Even knowing I could die. Even knowing it could destroy my healing abilities, could leave me damaged permanently. He'd made the decision without me, was already planning how to "handle" me, was treating my potential death as an acceptable risk to cure a disease that wasn't immediately fatal.

And the worst part—the absolute worst part—was that he was right about one thing.

If he asked me directly, if he explained that Mia needed this, if he framed it as my duty as a healer and a Luna... I would probably do it. Because that's who I was. That's who I'd always been. The rogue girl so desperate to belong, so desperate to be worthy of the home and pack and husband she'd stumbled into, that she'd risk anything to prove her value.

I'd spent four years trying to earn Matthew's love through service, through understanding, through being the perfect, undemanding wife. And now he was asking for the ultimate service—risk my life, sacrifice my health, potentially orphan our son—all to cure the woman he actually loved.

The woman he'd always loved.

I heard the elevator ding in the hallway, and heard footsteps moving away. Matthew was gone, already planning my sacrifice, already deciding my fate without my input.

I looked down at my hands—healer's hands, strong and steady and skilled. Hands that had saved Matthew's life twice now. Hands that had brought his son into this world. Hands that had mended countless wounds, eased countless pains.

Hands that he was willing to break to cure someone else.

Mrs. Finch stirred in her sleep, murmuring something about her husband. I moved automatically, checking her vitals, adjusting her pillow, doing what I'd been trained to do.

But inside, something that had been cracking for thirteen months finally shattered completely.

I was done waiting for crumbs from a man who'd already decided what I was worth.

Done being the understanding wife and pretending this half-life was enough.

My phone buzzed. A text from Matthew: *Working late tonight. Don't wait up.*

Working late. Right. Probably planning how to convince me to undergo a dangerous ritual without revealing he'd already decided I would do it.

I did not know how I got to my car and drove home, my mind spinning with what I'd overheard, with the implications, with the choice I now faced.

Matthew was wrong about one thing: I had refused him before. Just once, when I'd almost walked away after discovering I was pregnant, almost decided to raise Theo alone rather than trap us both in a loveless marriage of duty.

I'd stayed because I'd thought—foolishly, naively—that maybe someday he'd see me. Really see me.

But there was no mate bond. There never would be.

Since my mate had chosen his savior complex over his family, I would have to do what I should have done four years ago. Leave before he ruins me completely.