Hope

The medical building smells like antiseptic and iron.

Iron from blood. From fear.

I sit cross-legged on the thin mat in the corner of the triage room, my palms resting against my knees, eyes closed. Across from me, Emma watches with that steady, assessing gaze of hers. She hasn’t slept much either. None of us have. Not since the children were taken.

Not since Elena.

“Slow your breathing,” Emma murmurs.

I draw in air through my nose, count to four, let it out slowly. My wolf shifts beneath my skin, restless and sharp.

You push too hard, she growls softly inside my head.

“I don’t have time to go...