ANNALISE
I don't know how long I stand there, gazing at Carl Draco as my world is turned inside out.
My mate.
The words cut at my head, a reality I do not want.
He looks nothing of the mighty Wolf King the world adores. His skin is pale, his usually honed body covered in sweat, his chest barely rising and falling. Power radiates from him in jolting bursts, strangling, uncontrolled. At Thirty five, with fame that rivals celebrities he is known everywhere.
I don't need to touch him to see his heart is malfunctioning.
Obviously.
Irony comes close to the absurdness of this situation.
I gaze at Marcus, arms crossed, ignoring the way my wolf growls for me to go near the man unconscious on the ground ahead of us.
"I assume you didn't ask me here for moral support," I comment cynically.
Marcus doesn't blink. "You're the only one who can draw near."
"Yes, well, lucky me." I let out a sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose. "What am I working with?"
"A seizure three days ago, out of the blue. His heart hasn't been stable since." Marcus's tone is short, professional, but there's an undercurrent. Concern.
Good.
Let him worry.
"I'll require my equipment," I inform him. "And a sterile setting. Unless you'd like your precious King to die on this designer bedspread?"
Marcus tightens his jaw, then nods to a warrior standing by the door. "Ready the medical suite. Now."
It doesn't take more than an hour to have everything prepared.
I'm impressed—grudgingly.
The medical wing of the estate is on par with most high-end hospitals, and once I scrub in, I allow myself to fall into work mode.
It's easier this way.
The instant my hands touch him, his body responds.
His energy flows toward me, searching, reaching.
I clench my teeth. "Hold still, you son of a gun," I mutter, setting the monitors in place. "You're already getting into enough trouble out cold."
Marcus doesn't respond from his position watching.
The moment I make the first incision, I know this surgery is going to be a nightmare.
Carl Draco's body fights me at every step. His werewolf healing manifests at the worst moments, sealing my incisions before I can make repairs. I have to move fast, cutting deeper, cauterizing tissue before it gets the opportunity to close on its own.
Then there's his heart. Not only is it failing—it's rejecting my help. The muscle trembles under my scalpel as if it has a mind of its own. The monitors scream warnings at me—wild rhythms, blood pressure surges, then sudden crashes.
Something's wrong.
And then I see it.
Blackened veins, twisting like parasites around his heart. They pulse feebly, struggling against my scalpel. Poison? Magic? Whatever it is, it doesn't belong.
I grit my teeth and get to work, carefully cutting out the diseased tissue. But his body refuses the repairs. The wounds refuse to close. His heart still resists me.
"Damn you," I mutter, forcing his body to comply as I stitch him up manually.
Three hours later, his heartbeat is finally stable. My hands tremble.
Someone wanted Carl Draco dead. But I am able to stabilise him.
Good.
The less time I have to deal with him, the better.
The surgery isn't easy.
Carl Draco is a werewolf, so his body should be repairing itself. The fact that it isn't is proof that whatever is killing him is outside of natural forces.
Poison? Magic?
Doesn't matter.
I do what I do best.
I save his life.
Two hours pass, and his heart is pumping steady, my job finished.
I rip off my gloves, exhausted but triumphant. "He'll live," I inform him, removing my mask. "You're welcome. Someone went to great lengths to kill him; his heart was poisoned. Keep a close eye on him. Now I need to go."
Marcus doesn't look relieved.
"You're not going anywhere."
I freeze in place.
"Excuse me?"
"You heard me," he tells me quietly. "Until he wakes, you're not going anywhere. You're the only one who could calm him down, and I won't chance his condition getting worse again."
I stare at him.
Then I laugh.
"You've got to be insane if you think I'm going to baby-sit your King."
Marcus does not change expression.
I flash. "I saved his life. My work is done. I'm leaving home."
"No."
The single word is weighted with authority.
I inhale sharply, resisting the impulse to throw something jagged in his direction.
"You can't keep me here," I snarl.
Marcus pins me with a gaze that defies otherwise.
I grit my teeth. "Fine. Three days," I snap. "And then I leave."
He does not argue.
Good.
Because I wasn't kidding.
I don't belong here.
And I won't be staying any longer than necessary.
Three days pass.
Carl Draco remains absent, his body mending but his aura still oppressing, crushing him.
His lovers come by.
Yes, lovers, plural.
I observe them with wry humor as they coo over his comatose form, telling him sweet nothings that he can't even hear.
Pathetic.
One of them, a blonde, tall and willowy with too much perfume and a very clear sense of self-worth, looks down her nose at me as if I'm the help.
"You're the doctor?" she says, looking at me from top to bottom.
"Perceptive, aren't you?" I say, sarcasm dripping from my tone.
She scowls. "What are you still doing here?"
"Making sure he doesn't die, sweetheart," I say, sending a hard smile her way. "Unlike you, who seems to be doing absolutely nothing."
Her mouth drops open.
Marcus, who is standing nearby, coughs to suppress a laugh.
I smile.
By the time Carl Draco finally comes around, the estate is on edge.
The moment his golden eyes snap open, everyone's breath is stopped.
Including mine.
His eyes flicker over the room, fuzzy at first, then they focus like a razor.
And then they rest on me.
I see it.
The understanding.
The shock.
The awareness.
His mate.
I am his mate.
His fingers curl, as if to touch me, his throat tightening as he struggles to speak.
Too weak.
Too slow.
I step back before he can even try.
Marcus steps forward at once. "You're awake, my King."
Carl's gaze remains fixed on me.
I rise up onto the tip of my chin.
"Doctor Annalise Keaton," Marcus states smoothly. "She saved your life."
Carl's mouth falls open, raw. "You."
"My pleasure," I respond with a grin, and turn on my heel.
And exit.
Leaving the Wolf King, my pretended mate, too weakened to keep me in his grasp.