Chapter 3

Hazel POV:

"Get out! This is a private pack facility, not a charity shelter!"

The finance director's shout rang in my ears as he shoved me out of his office into the Pack Medical Institute corridor, throwing a stack of overdue billing notices straight into my face. The paper edges stung my cheeks, and my hands shook as the sheets fluttered to the floor.

A large, long-fingered hand reached down and picked up the scattered bills. I looked up into the warm, worried amber-green eyes of Preston Reynolds, my senior from medical school and the young Alpha heir of the allied Reynolds Pack.

Preston gently took my elbow and steered me into an empty stairwell corner. Looking at my pale face, he frowned deeply. "Hazel, what's going on? Why is finance harassing you? If you need funds, the Reynolds Pack can step in."

I quickly tugged the collar of my turtleneck higher to make sure the bruises stayed hidden and forced a weak smile. "It's nothing I can't handle, Preston. We're just still waiting on a compatible heart donor for my mother."

Preston studied me in silence for a beat, then lowered his voice. "Listen, if you need money fast, a high-ranking VIP suffered a severe silver injury recently. He needs top-tier micro-suturing tonight, off the books."

He held up five fingers. "Five hundred thousand dollars. Enough to cover your mother's ICU costs for half a year. The catch is you have to wear a blindfold and mask, ask zero questions, and sign a blood-oath of silence."

My breath caught. That money was my mother's lifeline. Without a second of hesitation, I nodded firmly. "I'll do it."

An hour later, I sat in the back of a bulletproof SUV with blacked-out windows, flanked by two stone-faced werewolf bodyguards as we drove into the forested hills outside the city.

When the car stopped, cold rain and wet pine needles blew in through the open door. Before stepping out, the guards made me put on a thick surgical mask and tinted protective goggles, leaving only a narrow slit for my eyes.

Inside the secluded villa, the hallways were dim and crawling with heavily armed Gamma enforcers whose lethal auras made the hair on my arms stand up.

One of the guards opened a heavy oak door and pushed me into the master bedroom. No overhead lights were on; only a dim amber wall sconce lit half of a massive, rumpled bed.

A man leaned back against the headboard with his upper body half-buried in shadow, exposing a broad, muscular chest where a stitched silver-claw wound had torn back open, oozing black blood.

My heart skipped a beat. The placement of the gash and the double-looped suture knots left at the edges—that was the exact wound I had stitched in the underground vault last night!

I craned my neck, desperate to see his face in the gloom, when a wave of freezing Alpha dominance slammed into my chest and pinned my boots to the floor.

"Stop staring and get over here," a low, gravelly voice snapped from the shadows. "Fix it, and keep your hands to yourself."

The voice sounded strangely familiar, sending a chill down my back, but the crushing pressure in the room made my head spin. I dropped my gaze, hurried to the bedside with my kit, and snapped on sterile latex gloves.

The moment my gloved fingertips brushed the scorching skin above his ribs, a faint electric current zipped up my arm. My hands froze mid-air.

Beneath my fingers, his abdominal muscles pulled tight as steel cables. From the dark recess of the headboard, his gaze locked onto my masked face like a physical weight.

Holding my breath, I snipped the snapped threads, irrigated the blackened tissue with silver-neutralizing solution, and began re-stitching the fascia with rapid, mechanical precision.

A cold scoff echoed above my head. "For a nameless hire, your hands are faster than the old Elders at the institute," he remarked, his tone laced with arrogant scrutiny.

I kept my mouth shut, focusing entirely on the needlework until a bead of sweat rolled down my temple, slipped past my mask, and splashed onto his collarbone.

His hand shot out like lightning and clamped around my jaw, forcing my chin up. Through the tinted goggles, I met a pair of predatory dark eyes glinting with faint gold in the gloom.

Pulled inches from his chest, the scent of winter cedar mixed with iron flooded my nose. My pulse skyrocketed, and a terrifying heat coiled low in my belly, threatening to reignite last night's madness.

Just as his thumb pressed harder against my jawbone, three sharp knocks sounded against the oak door, shattering the suffocating tension in the room.

He released my chin with an irritated click of his tongue. "Get out."

Moving as fast as my trembling legs allowed, I threw my instruments into the kit and bolted out of the master bedroom.

Out in the hallway, I leaned my back against the cold wallpaper and sucked in deep lungfuls of air, my uniform shirt soaked through with cold sweat.

Preston walked over from the waiting area and pressed an untraceable black bank card into my palm, his amber-green eyes dark with concern. "Take the car back to the city now, Hazel. Don't look back."

I clutched the hard plastic card against my chest like a shield. Whatever monster lay inside that bedroom, I prayed to the Moon Goddess I would never cross his path again.

Back inside the bulletproof SUV speeding toward downtown, I stared out at the blurring city lights, unable to shake the phantom burn of his fingers on my jaw. It felt as if the beast from the dark vault had recognized his prey.

I shook my head hard to clear the crazy thought—I was an unwanted Omega bride, worlds apart from a VIP like that. Suddenly, my phone buzzed in my pocket; I pulled it out and saw an official announcement pop up in the hospital staff group chat: the Royal Medical Center fellowship had been finalized.