NATALIA
Pain woke me. Not the sharp, screaming kind—but the dull, bruising ache of being shoved back into life.
I inhaled sharply.
The air was sterile. Clean. Tinged faintly with antiseptic and something herbal, like crushed mint leaves.
I blinked, vision swimming. White ceiling. Soft light. A pulse monitor beside me.
I remembered. The car accident. Falling. The impact. The water surging up around me.
My hand flew to my belly.
The baby.
My heart thundered.
Then, something inside me—my wolf—whispered that it was okay.
My baby.
Alive.
Tears sprang to my eyes before I could stop them. I didn’t sob. Just let them fall, warm and quiet, down my temples and into my hair. I had lived. My child had lived. For now.
The door creaked open.
A tall man stepped in. Dark hair. Green eyes
