Pain. That was the first thing she felt.

  It wasn't sharp. Not the kind that cuts and leaves behind a scream. No—this was worse. Deep. Sinking. A slow, crawling burn that settled into her bones and made a home there. Her head throbbed like it had been smashed against stone, her insides twisted, fire spreading through her stomach, curling around her ribs. A wound that had nearly killed her.

  For what felt like hours, there was nothing else. No sounds, no light, no sense of time. Just agony, anchoring her in place.

  Maybe she had died after all.

  But then— beep.

  A single, sharp sound cut through the silence.

  Her mind latched onto it instantly. She wanted to scream, to curse the cruel reality that she was still here. Still alive. And yet, she had never heard anything so infuriating. That beep—it was relentless, over and over, clawing at her sanity.

  A door opened. Muffled voices followed, distant and indecipherable. Her ears pricked, straining to make sense of the sounds, but they remained elusive, distorted. What were they saying?

  Footsteps approached. Hands pressed against her stomach. Pain. White-hot and blinding. If she could move, she would have screamed and thrashed under it. Instead, her body remained locked in its useless prison, unresponsive to her silent suffering.

  Something wet. Again. And again. No scent of antiseptic filled the air. What were they doing? She couldn't tell. Her thoughts slipped further away, too clouded, too heavy. Then, the voices faded. A door clicked shut.

  The beeping continued.

  A touch on her breast. That's what pulled her back.

  Nothing had changed. She was still trapped, prisoner to a pain that would not release her. Darkness was a better sentence.

  A stroke of flesh brought her back to her body.

  The claim. Fingers traced the mark, lingering where teeth had sunk to take her.

  The claim. Fingers traced the mark, lingering where teeth had sunk to take her.

  A cocktail of emotions assaulted her at once—disgust at the ugly scar branding her, hurt at the memory of its making, guilt for leaving him, fear of being caught beneath his teeth again.

  A shudder rippled through her, barely noticeable. Her body betrayed her—trapped between the instinct to recoil and the helplessness of knowing she once hadn't.

  Then—as suddenly as it came, it was gone. Cold replaced the absence of it.

  She let herself fall back, back into the dark where pain could not follow.

  When she woke again, she knew something had changed.

  The world was clearer now. Pain still simmered beneath her skin, but it no longer suffocated her. The sterile scent of disinfectant lingered in the air, mingling with something faintly herbal. Medicinal.

  She inhaled. And then—she opened her eyes.

  The simple act stunned her. After being trapped in darkness for so long, the ease of movement felt wrong—as if she had been freed from invisible restraints.

  So, she had survived. She didn't know how to feel about that.

  Her gaze wandered, unfiltered, taking in her surroundings. White. Walls, sheets, ceiling, a stark, sterile brightness. To her right, a machine—the cursed thing that beeped too much. To her left, an empty chair. A door.

  Her fingers twitched. Hesitantly, she lifted a hand to her stomach. No sharp pain, no gut-wrenching agony, just soreness. Her lips never let out the shriek she had braced for. She pulled the sheets away, testing her movements. The soreness remained, but she could move.

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  And then—footsteps.

  From beyond the door, the faint shuffle of movement. Someone was there. No surprise—she was a rogue. Of course, they would have her guarded.

  She ignored it.

  Instead, her focus dropped to her stomach and what she saw left her speechless. The wound—almost healed. Smooth, nearly scarred skin had replaced the gaping, bloody mess she had last remembered.

  Her wolf had done its job well. But even with its healing, she must have been asleep for a long time to recover this much.

  Bare feet met the cold floor. A shudder ran through her at the contrast, but she ignored it. Her gaze flickered down, catching sight of the flimsy hospital gown hanging off her frame. Not great. A quick scan of the room told her there were no other clothes in sight. She sighed. Fine.

  Reaching for the door, she pulled it open.

  Not a surprise—two guards, massive men, standing rigid, their presence expected. What she hadn't expected, however, was their reaction. They stared. First at her, then at each other, then back at her.

  Like they had absolutely no idea what to do.

  "You're looking at me like I grew a second head." She should not have been amused by the situation, but it was stronger than her. Maybe cheating death had made her bolder.

  The two men exchanged another panicked look. One of them almost greeted her back. His mouth opened—before immediately shutting as the other shot him a sharp look.

  A beat of silence followed as she studied them. Her gaze flicked between them. The one who had spoken—taller, broader, hesitant. The one who had stopped him—sharper, more rigid, clearly the 'in charge' type.

  Her lips curled slightly. Broad and Stern, then.

  "Are you allowed to talk, or is this a vow-of-silence kind of assignment?"

  Broad's mouth twitched. Like he was fighting back a smile. Stern just stiffened. Yes, she was definitely keeping the names.

  "I don't think we're supposed to—"

  A new voice cut him off.

  "No. You're most certainly not."

  She turned to the newcomer. Everything about him screamed intimidating and commanding. Where the guards were massive, he was more, authority dripping from him, undeniable—he owned the space around him. The way the others stiffened at his presence only confirmed it.

  He was handsome, too. Sharp jaw, dirty blond hair, ice-blue eyes that pinned her in place. Had she not been standing in a hospital gown, flanked by two big men who had just been scolded, she might have taken a moment to admire him more.

  He barely glanced at her guards before shifting his ice-blue gaze back to her. She held it.

  "Rosie," she said, offering her hand.

  His gaze flickered—just for a second. He looked at her hand. And then—he dismissed it. Didn't take it. Something about that moment—his refusal—felt off.

  "I'm the Beta. Milton." His tone was clipped. "The doctor was held back by the Alpha, but he'll be here soon."

  Something about the way he said it—too smooth, too rehearsed—made Rosie's stomach twist. Why did she get the feeling they weren't telling her everything?

  "You should get back to bed." A command.

  She turned, stepping back into the room. The three men remained at the door, lingering, but none entered. She sat, hands folded in her lap, waiting for the doctor, waiting for the Alpha, waiting for her fate to be decided.

  "Would any of you happen to know how long I was asleep?" She had to at least gather something.

  Milton smiled. It didn't reach his eyes.

  "Let's wait for the doctor."

  Before she could reply, another voice cut in.

  "Well, good thing I'm here, then."

  She knew that voice. Her head snapped up just in time to see the old man from before—the one who had cupped her face, had told her to fight.

  He stepped inside and the Beta followed, shutting the door behind them.

  She extended her hand again. "I'm Rosie." Unlike Milton, he took it. No hesitation, just warmth.

  His lips curled into a small smile. "Well, hello, Rosie. Happy to finally put a name to the face. I'm Doctor Sinclair, but you can call me Clark."

  She liked him better than the prim Beta.

  "I'm guessing you have a lot of questions," Clark said, settling beside her. "So let me answer them." She nodded. "You came to us badly injured. Your wolf did most of the work, but we were able to save you. However, in order to heal properly, your body shut down to conserve energy." He paused, eyes searching hers.

  "You were unconscious for two weeks."

  Two weeks. Rosie processed the words. That wasn't near long enough for her wolf to pull the kind of miraculous healing she saw on her stomach. Her mind shot back to the wet touch she'd felt while she was under, a sensation she had dismissed as delirium. But what if it wasn't? What if something—or someone—had helped her heal?

  Clark continued. "Your wolf worked tirelessly to keep you alive. You may not feel it right away—it's taking a well-deserved rest."

  An internal scan told her he was right. That... could be a problem.

  "What's next?" she asked.

  Clark smiled. "Rest."

  But it was not what Rosie was asking. "I meant when I'll be able to leave."

  Milton's posture stiffened. A look passed between him and Clark.

  "Hopefully," Milton said carefully, "never. The Alpha has agreed to let you stay."

  Oh. Oh? That was... unexpected. Packs hated rogues. She knew it, she was in a pack once too.

  She quickly dismissed the possibility. Even is she did want to, her presence would only put the pack at risk, a collateral.

  "That's...," she trailed off, making up her mind as the word tumbled out, "generous," she admitted, before adding, "but I don't belong in a pack."

  They tensed at the unsaid word. Rogue.

  "I don't mind leaving," she reassured them. "I'll be fine on my own." At least, now she wasn't bleeding to death.

  Milton's jaw ticked. "You should speak to the Alpha before deciding."

  Again, an order. Rosie was an expert at complying under men of power. It was not submission—it was survival. So, she nodded.

  "Good. The Alpha will see you soon," Milton said, voice careful. Too careful, like he knew something she didn't.

  Rosie didn't care. The sooner she faced him, the sooner she could leave. Sitting around wouldn't change a damn thing.

  She was already on her feet. Clark chuckled.

  "Aren't you hungry first?" He grinned.

  Her stomach growled.

  "And I'm guessing," he added, "a shower would be much appreciated?"