Chapter Twelve: Under the Wolf Moon
1095 Words
Rose’s POV
I force my eyelids open to a sliver, the room dim and hushed. A steady beep echoes nearby. Turning my head slowly, I spot machines monitoring my vitals, IV bags dripping clear fluid, one saline, the other maybe vitamins or proteins. Hunger gnaws at me so fiercely it hurts, twisting my stomach into knots. There’s a strange tingling under my skin, too, like the full moon is drawing near, whispering to the wolf inside me that’s been chained down my whole life. My body itches with caged energy, restless, waiting.
“You’re awake.”
A pair of blue eyes hovers over me. The soft spill of light through the window frames a young woman’s face, pale as porcelain, with fine features, a sharp chin, and hair so blonde it falls around her like silk. She leans in with a gentle smile, holding out a cup of water.
“Here. Drink slowly.”
I sip, the coolness soothing my throat.
“Do you want anything else?” Her voice is soft, wrapped in velvet.
“Food,” I rasp. “A lot of it, please.”
She nods. “I’ll let the doctor know you’re awake.”
Of course they wouldn’t risk taking me to a regular hospital. Girls like me can’t appear on official records without the police sniffing around, eager to find a thread that ties back to the famiglia. That’s one of the reasons I wanted to study medicine in the first place, to give women like us safe care within our own walls, without fear of exposure. Emergency births, C-sections gone wrong, too many of our women have died because the surgeon wasn’t skilled enough. If they had me, a girl obsessed with the human body, they’d stand a chance. I could save them.
“Hello, Rose.”
A middle-aged man in a white coat enters with a clipboard, a nurse trailing behind. He offers me a polite nod. “How are you feeling?”
“Hungry.”
“I ordered food for you already,” he says as he checks the monitors and my pulse. “In the meantime, let me examine you.”
I’m too weak to care. He works quickly while I notice the ache in my back and ankle is gone—whatever they gave me must have been strong. Then a young nurse arrives with a tray, the blonde woman close behind. With a click of a remote, she adjusts my bed upright, and the smell of food makes me dizzy.
“You had a knife wound on your back,” the doctor explains. “We stopped the infection in time. It should heal well, likely just a faint scar. The cut on your brow will leave no mark, and the ankle was only bruised, not broken. You’re stable now. Emily will stay with you, so call her if you need anything.”
I barely hear him. My attention is on the steaming plate: beef stew with potatoes and rice, a glass of juice, and—heaven itself—a slice of chocolate cake. I devour it like I haven’t eaten in weeks. Emily sits quietly, watching me with curious eyes. Something about her scent pricks my instincts, wolf, Beta, undeniably Tanorra blood.
“Want more?” she asks when I polish off the cake.
“Not yet,” I admit, wiping my mouth. “The last thing I ate was fruit salad between classes.”
She clears the tray. “It’s Tuesday. Eleven p.m. You’ve been asleep nearly a full day.”
“Do you have a phone? I need to call my father.” I glance down at the hospital gown I’m wearing. “Who changed me?”
“The nurse. Men don’t touch women—not even the doctor.” She perches on the edge of the bed. “How did you even get permission to study medicine?”
“Don’t women study here?”
“Only if their husbands allow it. I think we’re the same age, twenty-one? Normally, by now we’d be married with children.” Her gaze lingers on me. “So what’s different about you?”
“Vegas,” I answer with a shrug. “I’m twenty. Haven’t had my birthday yet. You?”
“February.” She gives a half-smile. “I can’t marry until Ethan becomes Boss.”
Her words click into place. She must be Ethan’s sister. She looks younger than twenty-one, closer to nineteen, but the weight in her eyes is older.
“Why?” I ask.
“It’s tradition. I was meant to marry the consigliere’s heir, but my father wants me to suffer. Ethan insists on keeping tradition intact.” She stretches, her expression shadowed with resignation. “It’s all a game, my father hurts me, Ethan gives me what I want. But enough about me.”
I let the subject drop. I don’t know her well enough to press, and besides, her family’s politics aren’t mine to unravel. I just hope she ends up with someone who won’t hurt her. Love is a fairytale in our world; survival means settling for a man who doesn’t inflict pain.
“Can I use your phone?”
“Not right now.” She curls up on the couch. “But Ethan asked me to tell you, your brother made it. Niger’s out of ICU and in a regular room.”
Relief floods through me so strong I nearly cry. Niger, safe. My brother, my shield, the only one who held me when the world crushed me. I silently thank Ethan for making sure I knew.
“And my father?”
“Still fighting the invaders.” She groans, rolling her neck against the couch arm. “I hate this thing.”
“Want to share the bed?” I scoot over. “It’ll be tight…”
Emily doesn’t hesitate. She jumps in beside me, her head landing on half my pillow.
“I was wondering when you’d ask,” she says, smiling.
I laugh softly at her unexpected warmth. Strangely, I don’t mind the closeness. I’ve never had girlfriends, never joined the sleepovers mafia girls whispered about. My mother’s nervous breakdowns kept us away from New York and me tethered to her side in Vegas.
I wonder how she’s coping now, fragile as glass, with Father fighting and Niger wounded. She must be unraveling. I’ll beg Father to let me speak with her when I can. I just pray my time in New York will be short. All I want is to go home.
- Writer
