Chapter 63

Chapter 63:

A ragged, wet gasp tore from her throat. She coughed violently, her back arching off the floor as air rushed back into her starved lungs. The sound was the most beautiful thing I had ever heard.

I slumped back on my heels, my own heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. She was alive. Weak, poisoned, and in agony — but alive.

Heavy footsteps thundered down the hall. My extraction team had finally broken through the perimeter. Vance was at the lead, flanked by the Pack doctor.

“Alpha!” Vance shouted, weapon raised, scanning for threats.

The doctor rushed forward. “Let me assess her vitals, Alpha — we need to p>

𝖮𝘳𝗴𝘢𝘯𝘪𝗓𝗲 𝘺𝗼𝘶r 𝘭𝗂𝘣𝗋𝖺𝗿𝘆 o𝘯

“No p>

The word was low, guttural, and final.

Ragnar bristled at the forefront of my mind, surging with possessive aggression. Mine. Safe. Only us.

I scooped Adella up into my arms. She was limp, her head lolling against my shoulder, her skin burning hot now as the serum fought the toxin. She felt fragile — like glass that had already shattered and was being held together by sheer will.

I stood, cradling her against my chest, wrapping my suit jacket around her to shield her from the prying eyes of the gathering crowd.

I turned toward the elevator. My warriors instantly parted, forming a protective phalanx around us.

As I passed Braydon, I paused. He was trying to push himself upright, staring at Adella with an expression of devastation.

“Dallas…” he croaked, reaching a trembling hand toward us.

I didn’t stop. I didn’t acknowledge him. He was a ghost — a relic of a past that Adella had just survived. He’d had his chance to save her, and he had chosen fear.

I stepped into the waiting elevator and held my Mate tight against my heart as the doors slid shut, sealing us in and the rest of the world out.

Fire.

That was the first thing I knew. Not the warm, crackling hearth of a home I no longer had — this was a chemical inferno raging inside my throat, scorching my esophagus with every shallow breath.

My eyelids felt weighted with lead. I forced them open, blinking against the harsh, sterile light. The rhythmic, monotonous beep of a heart monitor drilled into my skull, syncing with the throbbing pain in my temples.

I wasn’t in the ballroom anymore. The air here didn’t smell of expensive perfume and betrayal — it smelled of antiseptic, ozone, and cedar. Deep, rich cedar and the electric charge of a gathering storm.

Memories assaulted me in jagged shards.

The Plaza. The engagement party. Katherine Parrish standing before me, her smile a perfect veneer stretched over rotting malice. She had handed me that slice of mango cake with the grace of a hostess and the intent of an executioner.

“A peace offering,” she had said.

And I, desperate to salvage some shred of dignity, desperate not to be the bitter, wolfless ex-fiancée causing a scene, had taken it. I had swallowed the poison along with my pride.

But the sharpest shard of memory wasn’t the taste of silver dust burning my tongue. It was Braydon.