June
The pack hospital smells faintly of antiseptic and herbs, clean but not cold. The room I’m in is private, comfortable, and guarded—literally.
Two warriors stand outside the door at all times. They don’t talk much. They don’t need to. Ronan’s instructions were apparently very clear.
Sylvie sits on the edge of the couch, one leg tucked under her, scrolling on her phone with exaggerated calm. Vayda leans against the counter near the window, arms crossed, eyes sharp and observant. Dr. Malcolm checks my vitals for the third time in twenty minutes, frowning like she’s personally offended by how stable I am.
“You’re hovering,” I tell her gently.
“I’m monitoring,” she corrects. “There’s a difference.”
Sylvie snorts. “Sure there is.”
Dr. Malcolm ignores her. “How’s your chest?”
“Sore,”
