The steel table was ice beneath Sophie's skin.
She blinked slowly, eyes fluttering open against the harsh glow of surgical lanterns. Her limbs were strapped—wrist, ankle, waist.
“Vitals are stable," a healer murmured.
The chief surgeon stood beside her, mask in place, voice low. “Her scar tissue complicates the process. She might bleed out."
“She'll survive," Dylan said from behind the glass wall. His tone was flat, final. “Proceed."
The surgeon hesitated. “Alpha—"
“Proceed."
Sophie turned her head weakly toward the sound of his voice.
“Dylan," she whispered.
He didn't move.
The sedatives began to thicken behind her eyes. Cold seeped into her chest.
She took a breath.
And sang.
Softly.
Brokenly.
The lullaby.
Just the first line.
A melody older than memory—one he'd heard on
