Death isn't an option

Chapter Seven

The ceiling is wrong.

That’s my first thought. It’s too white, too smooth, no water stains, no hairline cracks to trace with my eyes. A slow, soft beep pulses somewhere to my left. My mouth tastes like cotton and metal.

I’m not in the woods.

I jerk in place and every part of my body lights up in protest—bright flares of ache along my ribs, my shoulder, my leg. Not the obliterating pain I remember, but a deep, bruised burn.

“Easy,” a voice says quietly. “Don’t try to sit up too fast.”

I turn my head.

A man in a white coat stands by the bed, tablet in hand. Late forties, hair touched with gray at the temples, face professional and smooth. He looks like he belongs in an advertisement for concierge medicine. The room behind him matches: single bed, soft gray walls, sleek monitoring equipment humming quietly. No fluorescent lights, no other patients groaning through thin curtains.

Not student health. Not an ER.

“Where am I?” My voice sounds wrong—hoarse, scraped. I swallow and wince. “Hospital?”

“A private clinic,” he says. His smile is small, practiced. “You’ve been through quite an ordeal, Ms. Cole.”

That’s… one way to describe being used as a chew toy.

Memories slam back in jagged flashes: the path, eyes in the trees, fur and teeth and claws, my own screaming, then gray sand and Nyra’s starlight eyes, and—

Knox’s wolf body, blood on his muzzle. His bones breaking and reforming. His voice, saying my name.

My heart stutters. The monitor beeps faster.

“What happened?” I ask.

“We’re still piecing together the details,” he says smoothly. “You were found near the campus woods with significant trauma—lacerations, contusions, some fractures. But you’re very lucky. No lasting internal damage.”

Lucky.

I remember ribs cracking. I remember not being able to breathe. I remember feeling my body… let go.

My hand twitches toward my chest.

Under the thin hospital gown, my sternum scar throbs, a steady, hot pulse.

“How bad was it?” I press. “The—” I have to force the word out. “Injuries.”

He flicks his eyes to the tablet. “A number of deep tissue wounds, yes,” he says. “Your body responded very well. Young, healthy patients often surprise us. You coded briefly on arrival, but we were able to stabilize you quickly.”

“Coded,” I repeat. “As in… died.”

“Your heart stopped,” he says. “We started it again.” He says it the way some people say we replaced your battery. Routine. Clean.

“And now I’m…” I look down at myself.

Bandages wrap my shoulder under the gown; I can see the edge where it peeks out, stark white against my skin. My leg feels tight where my jeans were shredded; under the blanket I can feel gauze and tape. Everything aches, but it’s the ache of old bruises, not fresh open wounds.

“How long?” I ask. “How long have I been here?”

“Less than twenty-four hours,” he says. “Your healing response has been… remarkable.” His gaze flicks to my chest, just for a second, like he knows something is under my sternum that isn’t on the tablet.

“Remarkable,” I repeat, because if I don’t keep saying something, I’m going to start screaming.

He offers a placid smile instead of an answer. “You’re stable. Your bloodwork looks good. We’ll keep you overnight for observation. After that, we’ll reevaluate discharge.”

Discharge. Like I’m a normal patient who can just sign something and walk out.

“Can I see my chart?” I ask. “Or… call someone?”

A shadow moves in my peripheral vision.

“She can see it later,” another voice says from the doorway. “For now, she needs to rest.”

The doctor straightens immediately.

He steps aside without being told.

Knox Graves walks into the room like he owns it.

He might.

He’s in a dark shirt and slacks, jacket draped over one forearm. The sleeves of his shirt are rolled to his forearms, throat bare where the top buttons are undone. He doesn’t look like the bloody monster from the woods, but there’s a tightness around his mouth and a faint shadow of exhaustion under his eyes that wasn’t there at orientation.

His presence changes the air in the room. The doctor’s posture shifts into something subtly deferential. The nurse at the door—who I hadn’t even registered—goes still, waiting.

My pulse spikes again. The monitor tattles on me.

“Ms. Cole is stable,” the doctor says, turning slightly toward Knox. “Vitals normalized. Pain under control. I want one more set of labs in the morning and another scan of her ribs before we consider discharge.”

Morning. That means it’s still night.

“Good,” Knox says. He doesn’t look at the doctor while he talks. His eyes are on me.

I feel pinned to the mattress.

“Give us the room,” he adds.

The command is quiet, but it isn’t a request.

“Yes, sir.” The doctor nods, makes a note on the tablet, and slips out. The nurse follows. The door clicks shut with a soft, final sound.

It’s just us.

For a second, neither of us says anything.

He moves closer, setting his jacket over the back of the chair by my bed. When he sits, the leather creaks. He leans forward, forearms on his knees, like he’s bracing for impact.

I suddenly remember him—the wolf—standing over the dead rogues. His body shifting, bones pushing and snapping until they were human again. Blood on his hands, on his mouth. The way he said my name like it hurt.

My fingers curl in the sheet.

“Where am I?” I ask again, because somehow hearing it from the doctor wasn’t enough. I want to hear how he says it.

“A private facility my company operates,” he says. “Off-campus. You were brought here once we stabilized you.”

“Your company,” I repeat. “Like your bar. And your campus security contract.” And your wolves.

He inclines his head slightly. “Among other things.”

“Why here?” I ask. “Why not a normal hospital where people sign forms and call their families and don’t wake up with… with strangers making decisions for them?”

His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. “Because a normal hospital isn’t equipped for what you went through. Or what you are.”

The bottom drops out of my stomach.

“What I… am,” I echo.

He hesitates. It’s small, but I see it. A crack in his usual effortless control.

“How much do you remember?” he asks.

Images flash too fast to separate: eyes glowing gold, fur under my fingers, my blood on the ground, Nyra’s hand on my chest, the giant wolf on the horizon.

“Enough,” I say. My voice shakes. “I remember being attacked. I remember them tearing into me. I remember dying.” The word scrapes my throat raw on the way out. “And I remember you.”

His gaze darkens. “Me.”

“You were…” I swallow. “You weren’t human.”

The words hang between us. There’s a moment where the world seems to hold its breath.

He doesn’t deny it.

He doesn’t say I was hallucinating, or in shock, or misremembering. He just watches me, eyes steady, as if waiting to see what I’ll do with this.

My skin crawls. My scar throbs, a hot, insistent drumbeat under my sternum.

“I need to leave,” I say abruptly.

The sheets rustle as I shift, trying to sit up more. The IV tugs in the crook of my elbow. Pain flares in my ribs. None of it hits as hard as the sudden, suffocating need to be anywhere but under his gaze in a room I did not choose.

“No,” he says.

It’s not loud. It’s not harsh. It might be the softest thing he’s said to me.

It’s still absolute.

“I wasn’t asking you,” I bite out. “I’m fine. Your doctor said I’m stable. I can go home.”

“You are not fine,” he says. “You were almost gutted.” His eyes flick to my shoulder, to my leg, back to my face. A muscle jumps in his jaw. “You flatlined twice on the way here. You’re only sitting up because of what’s inside you and what we did to keep it from tearing you apart.”

“What’s inside me,” I repeat, because apparently tonight is for phrases that make no sense and terrify me anyway.

His gaze drops, unerringly, to my sternum.

My hand moves there on reflex. The scar is a hot coal under my palm.

For a second, something like recognition flashes in his eyes—the same way Nyra’s had, right before she pressed her hand to that spot.

“You’re not leaving,” he says, dragging his attention back up to my face. “Not until I know you’re stable. Not until we’ve made sure they can’t get to you that easily again.”

“They?” My laugh comes out brittle. “The wolves? Your wolves?”

“Not mine,” he says, and there’s a thread of real hatred in his voice now. “Rogues. They weren’t supposed to be anywhere near campus.”

“That’s comforting,” I say. “That they were just… off-limits. In theory.”

His mouth tightens. “We’re handling it.”

“We?” I echo. “We as in campus security? We as in the mysterious ‘we’ that runs underground monster clinics and turns into giant dogs in the woods?”

His eyes flash. “June.”

“No.” The word comes out sharp. The monitor beeps faster again. “You don’t get to sit there and act like this is normal. Like dragging me to your secret hospital is just a favor. I didn’t ask you to save me.”

He leans back a fraction, studying me like I’m something he doesn’t quite know how to hold.

“Would you rather I’d left you there?” he asks quietly. “In the dirt. With your throat ripped out.”

The picture hits so hard my stomach rolls.

I press my lips together until they hurt.

He doesn’t push the point. Instead, he shifts forward again, elbows on his knees, hands clasped loosely like he’s trying very hard not to reach for me.

“When you went under,” he says, voice softer, “what did you feel?”

The question catches me off guard. “What?”

“When your heart stopped,” he says. “When you… left.” His gaze is intent, too intent. “Did you feel anything? See anything?”

The room seems to thicken. The machines hum louder. The light dims at the edges of my vision, like the walls are inching closer. My scar flares under my hand, a sharp, biting heat.

Nyra’s face flashes in front of me. Gray sand under my feet, cold water kissing the shore. Her voice: You are mine. Not yet. Go back to your monster.

I swallow hard.

“Just… pain,” I lie. “And then nothing. Like flipping a switch.”

His eyes narrow. He doesn’t believe me. I can see it in the way his fingers flex, in the way his jaw shifts, like he’s grinding down words he wants to say.

“June,” he says, low. “This is important. If you felt—”

“It was a blur,” I cut in. My heart is racing now; the monitor tattles in frantic beeps. “I’m not interested in reliving it so you can take notes.”

He exhales through his nose, slow. For a moment, the lines of his face soften—just a fraction. He looks tired. Older than thirty.

“I’m trying to keep you alive,” he says.

“You’re trying to control me,” I shoot back. “You pulled me into your world without asking, you stuck me in your clinic, your people are out there—” I nod toward the door, where I can just make out the shadow of someone standing guard. “And now you’re digging around in my head? No. No, thank you.”

His expression hardens again. The softness is gone like it was never there.

“I’m digging around in your head,” he says, “because something in you is waking up, and if we don’t understand it, it could kill you. Or worse.”

“Worse than being mauled to death in the woods?” I demand. “Enlighten me.”

His eyes flick once more to my sternum. “You’re not ready for that conversation.”

A bitter laugh escapes me. “That’s cute. You think you get to decide what I’m ready for.”

“I decide,” he says, “because right now, you are in my care. In my facility. On my watch.” Every my lands heavy. “Until I’m sure you’re safe, you don’t go anywhere.”

“I’m not a piece of equipment,” I say. “You don’t get to warehouse me because it’s convenient.”

He goes very still.

“You are not equipment,” he says. His voice is so quiet I almost miss the crack in it. “But you are… important.”

“To you?” I ask, before I can stop myself.

Something flickers across his face—anger, frustration, something darker and more vulnerable hiding under both.

“You died,” he says. “Do you understand that? Your heart stopped in my arms. Twice. The next time you decide you’re tired of being alive, I may not be close enough to drag you back.”

Shame crashes into me, hot and choking.

“I didn’t decide,” I whisper. “I froze.”

“And when you were under those wolves?” he asks. “When you felt your ribs break, your lungs fill with blood—did you fight? Or did some part of you think, finally?”

The truth hits like a third impact.

I look away. The monitor beeps faster. My eyes burn.

He swears under his breath, sharp and harsh. The chair creaks; he shifts closer, but stops with his hand hovering over the blanket near my leg, like he wants to touch but knows one wrong move will send me clawing at him.

“Don’t,” I say, voice raw. “Don’t pretend this is about me. This is about whatever I am to you. A liability. A puzzle. Something you can’t afford to lose.”

“Yes,” he says, without hesitation. “I can’t afford to lose you.”

I blink.

The room goes very quiet.

“I have people to answer to,” he continues. “A pack to protect. Agreements, treaties, enemies who would love nothing more than to use you as leverage now that we know what you are. You stepping into traffic or wandering alone along the treeline isn’t just self-destruction. It’s a security risk.”

“There it is,” I say. “Asset. Risk. Liability.”

His mouth tightens. “And,” he adds, “it would be… unacceptable. To me.”

The last two words land differently. Heavy. Personal.

My chest constricts. Scar blazing, lungs tight, heart caught between wanting to slam against my ribs and stop altogether.

“You don’t know me,” I say. It sounds weak even to my own ears.

His gaze is steady, unwavering. It feels like he’s looking through the flimsy paper gown, through bone, straight into the hot, aching brand under my sternum.

“I know enough,” he says. “You hate feeling weak. You hate being watched. You’d rather walk into a dark path alone than let anyone walk beside you and see you flinch. You keep choosing the edge and then acting surprised when you fall off it.”

He leans in a little, voice dropping.

“And I know I am not interested in burying you.”

My throat works around words that won’t form.

For a dizzy second, I see it—the Veil, the gray shore, Nyra’s silhouette. Go back to your monster.

I look at him and think: this is what she meant.

“I’m going home,” I say, clinging to the last scrap of control I recognize. “You can’t keep me here. That’s kidnapping, actually. Illegal. I didn’t sign any consent forms. You don’t own me.”

His eyes flash, a hint of that inhuman glow I saw in the woods. It’s gone so quickly I could almost convince myself I imagined it.

He stands slowly, unfolding to his full height. Even with the bed between us, he seems to fill the room.

He takes one step closer, not enough to loom, just enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his gaze.

“Yes,” he says. “I can.”

The simple certainty in his tone steals the air from my lungs more effectively than any broken rib.

“And I will,” he continues, “until I know you’re not going to die on me again.”

On me.

The words land like a chain around my ribs. My scar pulses once, hard enough to make me gasp.

Outside the door, I hear the soft shuffle of someone shifting their weight—Mara, Kade, one of his people. Guards. Not nurses.

I look at the IV in my arm. The sleek machines. The sealed door. The expensive, anonymous room with no visible sign of where in the city I even am.

I realize, all at once, that this isn’t a hospital stay. It’s containment.

I am not a free patient who can sign herself out. I’m a problem in a pretty cage. A girl with something inside her a goddess and a wolf-king have both laid claim to.

My mouth goes dry.

“You don’t get to decide that,” I say, but it comes out thin, more wish than fact.

He holds my gaze, unblinking.

“Get some rest, June,” he says quietly. “We’ll talk again when you’re stronger.”

He turns toward the door, but pauses with his hand on the handle.

Without looking back, he adds, “And don’t rip out your IV and try to run. I’ll only have to bring you back.”

The image—his arms around me, hauling me out of the road, out of the woods, out of the gray shore—flashes through my mind.

He opens the door.

For a heartbeat, I see the silhouettes outside: Mara’s familiar profile, Kade’s broad shoulders. Not random medical staff. Wolves in people-skin, set as sentries.

The door closes behind him with a soft click.

The room feels smaller without his body in it. My chest feels bigger and emptier and unbearably full all at once.

I stare at the ceiling, listening to the steady beep of my heart on the monitor, feeling the burn of my scar, and understand—finally, fully—that I am not out of danger.

I’ve just changed cages.