I slammed the brakes on the roadside, the pack-vehicle shuddering as the urgency in my veins refused to settle. The imprint was done—Francis' trace sealed into Alex's custody—but there was no relief in it. Only a growing unease that clawed at my instincts.
Without another word, I restarted the engine and drove toward the hospital again.
Behind me, the night stretched like a living shadow.
A black SUV tore through the city streets at the same time, cutting through the wind like a predator breaking from the Alpha's territory. Inside, Anastasia sat rigid in the passenger seat, her aura tense, unstable. I could feel it even without looking at her directly—the bond of worry, fear, and disbelief twisting together in her chest.
"How can this be happening…" she whispered, almost to herself. "Two glasses of wine… and he collapsed like that?"
I kept my eyes forward, steadying the wheel. "Don't panic. We'll see his condition first before jumping to conclusions."
