Chapter Ninety-Four – Time is Running Out
Blood soaked Rowan’s arms as he cradled Giselle tightly to his chest, her weight featherlight despite the strength that radiated from her only hours ago. Now, her body was trembling, her skin clammy, and the black streaks creeping from the arrow’s wound turned his stomach with dread.
His wolf was on edge, howling inside him.
‘Doctors—packhouse. Now.’ He barked through the pack’s mindlink, his voice sharp with authority and panic. ‘Our Luna is hurt. Elia’s injured too. Others are wounded—we’re coming in hot.’
The silence that followed lasted only a beat before confirmation flooded back—medics were already preparing. But not all responses were welcome.
‘Did you say Elia?’ Elder Malric’s voice slithered through the link like oil on water. ‘Rowan, you will bring her to me at once. She must be—’
‘Enough.’ Rowan cut him off, slamming down the mental wall with such force that he imagined the elder flinching wherever he was. ‘I’m not discussing this now.’
He closed the link altogether and gritted his teeth, adjusting Giselle gently in his arms as they broke from the forest edge and crossed into pack territory. She whimpered softly, unconscious but twitching with discomfort.
Beside him, Liam carried Elia, the girl pale and still, but breathing. Luther flanked their side, head snapping back toward the tree line, watching for any signs of more danger.
“Her leg…” Rowan muttered to no one in particular, his eyes dropping to the blackened skin around the wound. The discolored veins were spidering farther than before, creeping across her thigh like rot.
‘Kalen.’ He reached again through the mindlink, this time to his Beta. ‘Get the witch—*now.* Giselle’s leg. It’s black. Poisoned—*it has to be.*’
‘On it,’ came Kalen’s immediate reply, his tone grim. ‘She’s already on her way. I’ll meet her at the border and bring her in.’
They didn’t stop as they reached the packhouse steps—no hesitation, no time for pleasantries. Warriors and pack members parted quickly, gasping when they saw the unconscious Luna limp in Rowan’s hold. The scent of blood followed them, thick and coppery.
Inside, the main room had been cleared, medical bags already stacked on the table, blankets and supplies laid out by the hearth.
Rowan made straight for the couch, easing down with Giselle like she was made of glass. He knelt, gently laying her across the cushions, brushing hair from her face with shaking fingers.
“Giselle,” he whispered. “Stay with me, love. Don’t fade on me now.”
But her breathing hitched. Her lashes fluttered.
And then her eyes rolled back—and she went still.
“Giselle!”
The roar tore from Rowan’s throat before he could stop it, a primal sound that echoed through the halls like thunder. His power surged outwards, a wave of fury and heartbreak that rippled through every wall. Warriors standing nearby flinched. A glass on the far table shattered.
“Get her back!” he bellowed. “Now!”
He didn’t care that others looked on with wide, frightened eyes. His mate—his bonded—was dying, and he’d tear the world apart before he let her go.
The room stank of blood, sweat, and the acrid bite of fear.
Healers hovered around Giselle’s prone form, their hands glowing faintly with power, their brows slick with sweat as they poured every ounce of energy into her. Their murmured chants and whispered spells offered no relief. Rowan could see the truth in their eyes with every passing minute.
They were losing her.
“Her vitals are dropping,” one of the senior healers muttered, frantic now as she pressed her hands to Giselle’s leg. “Whatever was on that arrow—it's unnatural. The infection is... it’s spreading too fast.”
Rowan stood at her head, one hand gripping her pale wrist, the other clenched at his side. Giselle was too still. Her skin had turned a sickly, cold shade, her lips beginning to lose color. The black creeping veins had climbed up her thigh and were now etching across her abdomen beneath the shredded fabric of her training clothes.
“Do something,” he growled, the command nearly a plea.
“We’ve done everything, Alpha,” the lead healer answered, her voice thick with defeat. “It’s not a natural toxin. It’s laced with old, dark magic—beyond our reach.”
Before he could demand more, the front doors burst open, and Kalen rushed in.
The witch followed behind him, a small woman draped in layered, earth-toned robes. Her long silver hair was braided down her back, and her skin was the color of worn parchment, glowing faintly under the pendant at her throat.
She took one look at Giselle’s form and halted mid-step. Her lips moved without sound, her eyes narrowing in sharp focus.
Then she moved.
Without greeting or request, she stormed through the room and shoved the nearest healer aside.
Rowan growled a warning, but Kalen placed a hand on his shoulder. “Let her work.”
The witch said nothing to anyone. Her gnarled fingers reached into the bag at her hip and began placing things on the large table in the center of the living room—crystals, bundles of herbs, a bowl of glistening silver water, and what looked like bone fragments carved with ancient sigils.
She lit candles with a whisper and scattered salt in a circle on the floor.
Rowan watched her with a clenched jaw and a pounding heart, every instinct screaming at him to do something—anything—to save his mate.
She finally straightened and looked around at the bodies crowding the room. Her sharp gaze landed on Rowan, then flicked to the wounded spread across makeshift beds and bloodied blankets.
Rowan stepped forward, voice cutting like steel. “Everyone not essential—out. Now.”
The warriors didn’t hesitate, moving swiftly to gather the wounded. Healers began directing the transport of the injured to the hospital. When someone bent to lift Elia from her place on the rug, Rowan barked—
“She stays.”
The warrior froze.
“She’s a target,” Rowan continued, eyes narrowing. “And she’s safer here, in my sight.”
No one argued.
The room slowly cleared, leaving only the witch, Rowan, Kalen, Liam, Luther, and Elia—who lay pale and unmoving beside the couch, her chest rising and falling faintly.
The witch turned back to Giselle, her hands hovering over her body. The blackness on Giselle’s skin had now reached her ribs.
“She doesn’t have long,” the witch finally said, her voice dry as brittle leaves. “What was in that arrow… wasn’t meant just to kill. It was meant to sever.”
Rowan's heart clenched. “Sever what?”
The witch’s eyes met his.
“The bond.”
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