Majori's POV:
He collapsed to his knees, spun back, his face flushed with anger. "You..."
I threaded the severed IV tubing between my fingers, looped it around his wrist, and yanked tight. "A spy being exposed and dying on the enemy's territory is ordinary business. Will Brian mourn you or suspect you first?"
Fear flickered real fear across his eyes. In that split second, I twisted and drove my knee into his gut.
"Majori!" he roared, but the word broke in pieces.
"I've been scared enough." I jerked the line; the needle skewered across his hand, and he screamed. "Now it's your turn."
He thrashed, slammed a fist into my shoulder and sent me reeling. Pain detonated along my scapula but I didn't let go. His eyes were bloodshot, his growl feral and his claws were as sharp as iron spikes. I told myself and the wolf inside me to hold.
"Break the door! Hurry, he's going to kill me!"
We grappled all the way to the wall. He leaned, pulled a knife from his boot, slashed; I tilted my head and the tip only grazed my neck leaving a burning line. I caught his wrist, reversed it and used his own force to drive the blade into his shoulder. He shrieked.
Seizing the moment, I smashed his head against the edge of the table. Bone met wood with a dry crack. He staggered, eyes bulging. I grabbed the fire extinguisher and brought it down on the nape of his neck.
He collapsed, unconscious.
I dropped to my knees, still clutching the metal canister, my whole body shaking with pain and adrenaline. Blood dripped onto the floor, one bead at a time. Outside, voices rose, urgent and then a thunderous crash tore through the room: the door was breached.
I tossed the extinguisher aside, leaned back against the wall, gasping. "Hurry," I whispered, my throat raw with fire.
Silverfang guards swarmed in, guns drawn, flashlights slicing the wreckage. They froze for a heartbeat at the chaos: upended bed, cracked wall, a man sprawled unconscious in a smear of blood and white dust.
"Detain him," I rasped, pointing. "And call Vincent."
One knelt, turned the man's face. When the silicone mask peeled away, the room fell dead silent.
"It's the Captain…" someone murmured.
I let my head rest against the wall and exhaled, cold sweat prickling down my spine. "Yes. Captain of the Snow Moon pack," I said, each word scraping my throat. "And Brian's hunting dog."
A guard offered me a hand. I brushed it aside but my legs were already buckling. "Wait," I said, fighting the blackness rising at the edges. "Seal the room. Call the doctor… and call Vincent."
Only then did I allow myself to close my eyes for a beat, listening to the click of combination locks, the hiss of radios and someone reporting, "Target unconscious, victim injured." The pain crashed down like a falling ceiling. I clung to the one clear thought left: someone had shown their face. And I torn and battered was still here to see it.
The smell of antiseptic mingled with gauze and dried blood, thinning in the cold air. I sat still, my left hand wrapped in a white band, the wound still warm with medicine. The doctor bent over me, changing the dressing, fingers quick and deft as if piecing together a cracked shard of porcelain. In the corridor, footsteps measured and heavy echoed through the hush until I could hear each beat of my own heart.
Then a familiar voice, low and a little rushed:
"Good evening, Lord Vincent!"
I lifted my head slightly.
The door opened, bringing a sweep of cold wind.
Vincent stepped in.
He wore a black suit, his tie hastily knotted, damp hair dusted with melting snow. On his shoulders, half-melted flakes drew silvery tracks. He must have come straight from a meeting or a long trip; his eyes still held the look of a man who hadn't yet had time to breathe: tired, tense, worried to the point that the regal wolf-king veneer had slipped.
That gaze found me. And instantly, no one else existed in the room.
He went straight to my bedside, nearly forgetting the nurses and doctor around him. "How is she?" His voice was hoarse, urgent, trembling at the edges.
The doctor looked up, calm and professional.
"The wounds aren't deep, soft tissue tearing only, plus a few minor concussions. Mental state is slightly unstable but not life-threatening. She needs rest."
Vincent nodded but his eyes never left me as if I might vanish if he looked away for even a second.
He sat on the edge of the bed, his shadow falling across half my body. Under the white light, his face was a slab of wet marble: solid with a storm simmering beneath. He raised his hand; his fingers trembled as they touched my cheek. Just a brush then he pulled back.
Vincent turned away.
"How could this even happen? Which route did he use to get in without anyone noticing?" His eyes weren't on me, but the words were meant for me.
"And you, why didn't you scream the moment he appeared? Why did you try to hold him? Do you think you're strong, that you're invincible? If anything had…" His voice dipped, strained; I could hear what he feared though he didn't say it. In the end, he chose different words:
"Don't ever do that again."
I said nothing. I just looked at him, the man who had once been my entire world, now sitting less than a hand's breadth away from me, yet the distance between us felt as deep as an abyss.
The door eased open. Rin appeared and bowed.
"My lord, about the Captain..."
"Not now." Vincent didn't turn. His voice was cold, hard as steel. "I said later."
Rin hesitated then withdrew.
The air settled again, only the wall clock counting the seconds and the soft patter of sleet against the window. I wanted to speak, but my throat still ached where the spy's fingers had squeezed. I drew a breath, tried to smile and my lips only trembled.
Just then, high heels clicked in the corridor short, sharp even on the stone floor.
The door opened again, letting in a sweet, cloying perfume and a chill, cutting voice:
"Oh… I heard our honored guest was injured."
Dane swept in. Soft brown curls like waves, a white fur-trimmed coat draped over narrow shoulders. Her smile was gentle; her gaze was a needle.
"I heard there was an intruder and someone got hurt. Such a pity it turned out to be Miss Majori," Dane said, lips curving. "And I hear she was quite the hero, she knocking out Brian's spy all by herself?"
Vincent frowned. "Dane, it's late. Go your room and rest."
"Are you worried about me, Vincent? The one who needs your attention is the woman in that bed." She laughed lightly, the sound falling cold and hollow. "All I see are a few scratches. Look at her still has the strength to chat. Or is she… pretending to be weak so you'll dote on her?"
"Dane." Vincent's voice dropped a clear warning.
But she didn't stop. "Doesn't it strike you as odd, Vincent? A seasoned spy like the Captain and he leaves her alive? Maybe…" She tilted a smile at me. "Maybe there's something between them. I'm only suggesting… a possibility."
Silence knifed through the room.
I just looked at her. Not angry, only tired. I'd heard words like these before from people, from life, from myself.
Vincent stood. The chair he'd been sitting on toppled backward with a sharp crack.
"That's enough, Dane."