The interior of the hunting lodge was a cathedral of shadows and ancient cedar, lit only by the flickering, orange tongue of the hearth. Outside, the Appalachian wind shrieked through the pines, but inside, the silence was more violent. It was the silence of a choice that couldn't be unmade.
Julian stood by the heavy oak table, his hands trembling as he laid out the supplies: a bottle of cheap bourbon, a roll of sterile gauze, and a pair of surgical tweezers he’d pulled from the emergency kit. The firelight danced off the steel, making it look like a ritual blade.
"Grace," Julian whispered, his voice cracking. "She’s only a few hours old. Her system is fragile. If we do this wrong... if we nick an artery or cause an infection..."
"If we don't do this, she belongs to Melanie by sunrise,"
