Fiona wasn't dead but she wanted to be.
The moment her body collided with the ground, a sickening crack echoed through the air, her bones shattering on impact. The pain had been immediate, overwhelming—then everything went dark.
But she hadn't died.
Now, as her consciousness clawed its way back, she wished she had.
Heat burned through her veins like molten iron. Her body was repairing itself, forcing shattered bones to mend, torn flesh to knit back together.
But the process wasn't smooth—it was agony. Werewolves healed fast, but the speed came at a price. Her nerves were on fire, her muscles spasming as her body fought to put itself back together.
She screamed.
A raw, guttural sound that tore from her throat, bouncing off the high walls of the mansion.
She barely registered the voices around her, the hands trying to hold her down. The bed beneath her—had they moved her? Was she still alive?
"Hold her still," came a calm but firm voice.
