The Council Will Hear You
The safehouse smelled like antiseptic and old coffee.
Lucien’s doctor stitched my thigh in silence, her hands quick and efficient. No questions. No small talk. She’d worked for his family for twenty years. She knew better than to ask why a werewolf had a gunshot wound and silver burns.
“Don’t shift for 48 hours,” she said, cutting the thread. “You’ll tear it open again.”
I nodded.
“48 hours. Got it.”
She left without another word. The door clicked shut behind her.
Mia was asleep on the couch in the next room, wrapped in a blanket, face finally clean of dirt and dried blood. She was safe. That was the only thing keeping me from falling apart.
Lucien stood by the window, staring out at the dark city. His jacket was gone. Blood had dried dark on his shirt.
