Nixon’s POV
"Get your hands off her before I tear them from your wrists!"
Alice did not even flinch at my scream. Her fingers kept moving, pressing deep into my mother’s waxy neck, counting a pulse that was not there. The metallic stink of old blood and heavy antiseptic hung thick in the air, sticking to the back of my throat. The monitors were flatlining, drawing one long, agonizing scream of electronics that filled the entire infirmary.
"Step back, Alpha Nixon," Elder Nathan barked, his voice cracking with old age. He was throwing dried, bitter herbs across my mother’s chest, his wrinkled hands trembling as the grey leaves scattered over her hospital gown. "We are losing the rhythmic cycle. Give us room or she is gone."
"You have five seconds to fix this," I hissed, my ribs tightenin
