My roar of anguish echoed through the emergency room doors as I burst through them, Seraphina's blood soaking my clothes, my hands, my soul. The scent of it was everywhere—metallic and wrong—the precious lifeblood of my mate spilling from her body.
"Help her!" I snarled, my Alpha voice rattling the windows and sending several nurses scrambling backward.
Seraphina lay limp in my arms, her rose-gold hair matted with crimson, her skin ashen. The rise and fall of her chest was so slight I could barely detect it. My mate, my little wolf, my queen—reduced to this fragile, broken form.
A doctor stepped forward, a middle-aged man with steady hands and determined eyes. He didn't cower like the others.
"Put her here," he ordered, gesturing to a gurney. When I hesitated, unwilling to release her, he added more firmly, "Every second counts, Alpha."
