“CSD can be treated.”

“Yeah. In Weres, it can. Sometimes. But my hybrid biology hasn’t been responding to meds. My hormonal levels are getting worse, and Dr. Henshaw said . . .” I suck my teeth. “Not compatible with life. That’s how he put it.”

Koen’s eyelids are the only moving parts of his body. They flutter closed, then open again as he asks calmly, “How long?”

“Six months at the most. But that was . . . two months ago.”

“I see.” He seems bizarrely unperturbed. An Alpha trait, maybe: set aside emotions, absorb information. I’m sure it’s useful in a crisis, but his cold grilling is somewhat disturbing. “What treatments did he attempt?”

“All of them. He involved his colleagues, and . . . believe me when I say, no stone was left unturned. But the side effects were bad, and my deterioration was steady. Linear, originally, then exponential.”

“Is it still? Getting worse?”

After a beat, I nod. “The fevers are almost nightly. And the eye thing, the claws . . . those are new. I don’t know what that was.”

“Arms and eyes are where the shift to wolf form starts,” he explains. “Their motor proteins activate first.”

“Really? Is that the reason . . . ?”

“Maybe your fever triggers the shift, but your body cannot see it through. Or vice versa. I don’t know. I barely ever took a science class.”

“Really?” I tilt my head. “Why?”

“Because I was too busy protecting my pack from a coup to finish high school. Does the Vampyre know?”

“Misery? No. When I started seeing Dr. Henshaw, I told her some bullshit about having headaches, and— ”

Koen snorts.

“What?”

“Just shocked the Vampyre still trusts your lies, is all.”

I frown. “Every lie I’ve told Misery was to protect her from— ”

“I’m sure your pretty little head made up a million good reasons and topped them with those gross formaldehyde cherries. Still can’t believe she lets you out of her sight.”

“No one ‘lets’ me do stuff or go places,” I point out tiredly. “That’s not how it works, Koen.”

“If you were mine, it would. And clearly, you fucking should be.” I can’t tell if it’s a threat or a promise. All of a sudden, Koen’s eyes are so full of anger, I shiver and turn aside.

“Is that why you were in the fucking woods alone for two months? Why you’re here now? Some fucked- up notion of sparing your sister from finding out that the person she cares the most about in the whole world is ill?”

Guilt stuffs my throat full. This is the part I’m most embarrassed to speak out loud, but I force myself to do it anyway. “One night I woke up in Ana’s room. With no idea how I’d gotten there.”

Koen inhales sharply. Like he already knows where this is going. “You didn’t hurt her, Serena.”

“No, but I could have. I was boiling hot and disoriented, and CSD patients can often experience aggressive episodes, and . . .” I shake my head. “It’s for the best. If I told Misery, she’d want to be with me. But Ana needs her more than I do, so— ”

Something lands on the comforter with a soft thud.

I gasp. “These are my . . .”

“Letters. To Ana and the Vampyre.”

“Where did you find them? You had no right to— ”

“On your bed. Unfolded.”

“That doesn’t excuse— ”

“Serena.” It’s little more than a whisper, but everything about Koen, from his voice to the taut flex in his biceps, tells me how deeply unwilling he is to let me express righteous indignation over the violation of my privacy. He continues, composed, soft spoken, just as calm: “Last night, I didn’t know if you’d ever wake up again.”

It’s heart snapping, as far as realizations go. I worked my way up to really bad attacks, but he had no context for what he experienced a few hours ago. It hadn’t occurred to me how scary it would be for him to witness it.

Because that’s what he is. Scared. Terrified in a way he may have never experienced before. It makes my stomach twist and my eyes burn.

“I’m sorry.” I wipe my cheek with the back of my hand. “I’d written those back at the cabin, but . . . well, I had to redo them. They’re for Misery, for the most part. And Ana— from someone who’s like her. And I wrote one for Lowe, too, but it’s mostly about how to take care of Misery once I’m not . . . I mean, he’s doing a great job already. But there are some quirks you only find out by living with someone for a decade, like Misery’s penchant for hate-reading, her terrible taste in clothes if left to her own devices, the fact that sometimes she uses fancy words without really knowing their meaning. She could fall back into her mismatched socks phase, and . . .”

“Why are you crying?” Koen asks gently.

I sniffle. “I’m not sure. Could you please forget that you know? I’d rather not talk about— ”

“That’s no longer an option.” His tone is kind but steel boned. “I’m your Alpha. And I need you to be honest with me.”

I take a deep, shuddering breath. Gather myself. “Dr. Henshaw has my labs. All my data. He has a lot of information at his disposal, and he was able to reconstruct the progression of my condition. I don’t know how much of this is due to me being a hybrid, but if it is, and if something similar were to happen to Ana . . . Dr. Henshaw is under instructions to inform Lowe, after . . . afterward. I hope it’ll help, and— ”

“After what, Serena?”

“— I’m not precious about that stuff. It’s more that I don’t want them to freak out or feel like they have to— ”

“After. What,” he repeats. He’s not on the stool anymore. Instead, his palms brace both sides of my bare thighs, and he leans into me. Close enough that his scent becomes my entire universe. Close enough for me to see little freckles on his skin, to count the scars that crisscross all over his torso. He looks down, inexorable, eyes blacker than black. “Say it. After what?”

I have to. Out loud. For the very first time. I have no choice but to make this real. “After I die.”

The second the words are out, hanging heavy in the air between us, Koen . . . smiles.

He bends further, and there isn’t a single trace of doubt on his face. He’s an immovable object and an unstoppable force. And he says, slowly, “If you think I’m going to let you die, Serena, you know fuck all.”

DR. SEM CAINE’S OFFICE IS AT THE OUTSKIRTS OF THE DEN. HE checks my vitals and listens to a detailed recap of last night’s episode, but what he spends most of his time on is the records Dr. Henshaw sent over.

Koen waits by the door, cross-armed and dark-clouded. He dispassionately informs Sem of my prognosis, commands him to refute it, kill it with fire, salt it, and then simply gazes stoically into the distance as I put my clothes back on.

It was a shared but unspoken decision, him staying for my exam. Maybe he’s afraid I’ll bolt, even though I’m here neither reluctantly nor under duress. Maybe he cannot physically stay away. All I know is that my heart is squeezed into the tightest of fists. It’s obvious what he wants to be told.

Sem glances away from his tablet to give me a warm healthcare-professional smile. “Alpha, I think it would be best if you and I could talk privately.”

“About me?” I sit back in the chair and cock my head. “That has to be a HIPAA violation.”

Sem’s brow furrows. “A what?”

“Just . . .” I shake my head. “Whatever you have to say, you can do so in front of me. I won’t make a scene.”

Sem clears his throat. “May I speak freely?”

“Yes,” I say— just as Koen does. The question, of course, was for him. And not for the rightful owner of the soon- to- be- rotting body.

“Okay. Well.” Sem draws in a steady breath. “Quite frankly, looking at the labs, I am surprised that you’re alive, Serena. Dr. Henshaw’s diagnosis and prognosis seem accurate.”

I knew it, of course, but hearing it still feels like a blade slicing me open. I can’t see Koen’s face from where I sit, but I feel his displeasure beating through me. It’s so intense, I almost consider going to him and . . . and what? Patting his back? Giving him a hug? I’m being ridiculous.