Chapter 486
I stared at the syringe. Tomorrow was Vance Decker’s Marking ceremony. He was my Gamma, my brother in arms. I had to stand before the Pack as their invincible Alpha King to honor his loyalty and maintain the illusion of absolute stability. If I appeared weak, the Silver Claws would realize my rejection of Adella was a desperate shield—and they would hunt her down.
“I need four hours of strength, Alistair,” I rasped, my voice a hollow echo of the beast I used to be.
“It’s suicide!” he pleaded.
I didn’t have the energy to argue. I let my eyes bleed into the glowing, bottomless black of my dying Lycan, unleashing the crushing, undeniable weight of an Alpha’s Command.
“Inject it, Alistair.”
The doctor gasped, his spine snapping rigid as his wolf forced his body into absolute submission. Tears of profound failure welled in his eyes as he stepped forward and uncapped the needle. He drove it into my arm, pushing the lethal cocktail into my veins.
Fire exploded through my bloodstream. A violent, artificial surge of energy masked the agonizing rot in my marrow. I stood, my posture straightening into the arrogant, unyielding stance of a King. It was a flawless lie, bought with the last drops of my life.
Vance Decker’s POV
The moment I stepped into the dim light of the Penthouse Study, my Gamma instincts screamed that something was catastrophically wrong.
Dallas sat behind his massive mahogany desk, reviewing Pack security files. He looked imposing—but my nose didn’t lie. The overwhelming, comforting scent of storm and cedar that had defined my Alpha for decades was gone. In its place was a suffocating stench of hospital bleach and rotting iron, with the unmistakable metallic tang of silver poison beneath it all, and the faint, pathetic scent of a dying beast.
“You smell like a damn hospital, Alpha,” I said, stopping in the center of the room.
Dallas didn’t look up from his papers. “Overtraining. The new recruits are testing my patience, and I spent the morning in the medical wing getting my torn muscles patched up.”
It was a smooth excuse—but right as he finished the sentence, a violent tremor seized his broad shoulders. He turned his head, snatching a white handkerchief from his desk to muffle a sudden, tearing cough. He was fast, but I was a Gamma. I saw the thick, viscous black blood slipping between his fingers before he quickly balled the fabric in his fist.
My blood ran cold. “Training doesn’t make you smell like you’re rotting from the inside out, Dallas.”
Dallas slowly raised his head. His storm-gray eyes were hard, daring me to push further—but the silence in the room was deafening. He wasn’t going to tell me. He was going to sit there and bleed to death behind his desk.