The chemical fire of the suppressant drags her under. Every breath feels like lifting iron. The golden power is still there, trapped somewhere deep beneath the numbing ice, but she can’t reach it.
But she isn’t empty.
Callum.
She finds his tiny spark pulsing against the mangled edges of the maternal bond—raw, stubborn, and refusing to be snuffed out. He’s barely days old, yet he’s pouring whatever primitive strength he has back into her. Her boy.
Touch him and die. I won’t allow it.
Savannah’s heels click against the linoleum, a cold, steady rhythm. She circles the steel gurney like a vulture, savoring the moment. The white lab coat thrown over her shredded gala dress looks absurd, but the syringe in her gloved hand isn’t a joke. The milky fluid catches the harsh fluorescent glare—an
