Jodie The harsh scent of antiseptic burns my nose as I blink awake. The ceiling above me is too white, too bright. The faint hum of the lights fills the room, steady and sharp, like it’s echoing inside my head. My body feels heavy, my thoughts scattered, but the second I remember, my hand moves to my belly. A chill rushes through me. I try to drag my body up. Ugh, hospitals. “Careful,” a familiar voice says softly. I turn my head and see Evelyn standing beside the bed, her arms folded, her white coat half-unbuttoned. Her hair’s tied back, but a few strands have escaped, brushing against her cheek. She looks exhausted — and relieved. “You almost scared my wolf out of me,” she murmurs, setting a cup of water on the bedside table. “You lost a lot of blood, Jodie.” "Thank the moon for your wolf's strength." I blink, trying to focus through the haze. “How long have I been out?” My voice comes out scratchy, like I swallowed sand. “Almost twenty-four hours,” she says, adjusting the IV
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