Eighty thousand just wouldn't cut it.
Swallowing back the nausea, Eleanor turned her head and stared at the second bottle on the table.
Two bottles meant one hundred sixty thousand—half for Shawn's treatment, half to pay off the debt. That would do it.
With a shaky exhale, she slowly let go of the table edge, forcing her hand toward the bottle. Right now, all she could think about was fixing things for Shawn and keeping Ethan safe. He was all she had left. The physical pain? She'd already tuned it out.
The werewolves looked at her like she'd grown a second head.
"She's really going for it again? Is she nuts?"
"She's totally lost it. Girl's desperate enough to throw away her life for some cash."
"Carl, just let her do it. If she drinks herself to death, that's on her,
