15. The Poison Of Survival
15
THE POISON OF SURVIVAL
~KNOX~
I 'm not a patient man by nature.
Never have been.
The constant hum of energy that makes me exceptional with tech— the ability to process multiple streams of information simultaneously, to see patterns where others see chaos —makes sitting still a special kind of torture.
Yet here I am, perched in the corner of Dr. Chen's office like some brooding gargoyle, one leg crossed over the other, watching every minuscule movement the doctor makes as he tends to the unconscious Omega on the examination table.
Jessica. Her name is Jessica.
I remind myself, studying her features with the same intensity I'd apply to an encrypted database. The details matter.
They always do.
Her face is flushed, a feverish pink staining cheeks that were pale as moonlight when I carried her through the clinic's back entrance ninety-three minutes ago. Her brow furrows occasionally, even in unconsciousness—fighting something, someone, in dreams I hope are kinder than whatever caused her collapse.
Those eyes—I can't forget how they looked at me in that final moment before she lost consciousness. Wide with fear, with accusation, with resignation. As if she expected betrayal. As if collapsing in my presence meant waking up in enemy hands.
She doesn't trust us. Why would she?
My gaze travels to her hair, spread across the sterile white pillow like a painter's fever dream.
The roots show a hint of natural black before blending seamlessly into ruby red, then sunset orange, finally terminating in tips the perfect yellowish blonde. A sunrise and sunset captured in strands of silk.
It's nothing like the platinum blonde from the photographs in Marcus's file—the sixteen-year-old ballet prodigy with her pristine bun and perfect posture. The Jessica who existed before the alley, before the rain, before death and resurrection.
Her lips are naturally red, though Dr. Chen removed the dark lipstick she'd been wearing when I brought her in.
Strange, how such a small detail registers as significant.
In all the surveillance footage I've reviewed— and there's been plenty since Marcus dropped this bombshell on us —she favors black and red. Dark colors, severe lines, the aesthetic of someone who doesn't want to be noticed but doesn't care if she's feared.
A stark contrast to the old footage of sixteen-year-old Jessica in neon-colored dance attire, smiling into the camera with unguarded joy before executing a perfect series of turns that made even my technologically-inclined mind appreciate the physics involved.
Who was that girl? What would she think of the lethal sniper she became?
The thought is unexpectedly melancholy, out of character for a man whose emotional range typically runs from "caffeinated" to "homicidal." But there's something about her— about this entire situation —that feels different from our usual operations.
More personal. More consequential. More...human.
My phone vibrates with an incoming text.
Bastian, confirming that the perimeter is secure. He's been outside for the past hour, ensuring no one approaches the private clinic without his knowledge. Marcus is handling "business", which could mean anything from legitimate corporate negotiations to having someone dismembered in a warehouse across town.
Probably why those hunters moved now.
Common mistake, thinking that Marcus's absence meant Jessica was unprotected. As if our pack would leave such a valuable asset— such a significant person —without surveillance. Without protection.
Without us.
I check the time, calculating probabilities and timelines as automatically as breathing. Rook should be arriving any minute, assuming he received my messages. Assuming he's not too deep in whatever bloody errand sent him storming from the mansion earlier.
Assuming he can control his rage long enough to be useful rather than dangerous.
"Mr. Eastman."
Dr. Chen's voice pulls me from my thoughts.
I lower my legs from their crossed position, rising in a single fluid movement that belies my lanky frame. People tend to underestimate my physical capabilities, distracted by the tech genius persona I cultivate. Their mistake, usually their last.
"What's the verdict, Doc?" I ask, moving to the bedside.
Up close, Jessica looks even worse.
The flush I'd noticed earlier isn't the healthy glow of exertion but the angry red of fever. Her expression is troubled, brows drawn together, lips occasionally moving as if trying to form words.
The IV line connected to her arm delivers clear liquid from two separate bags—saline and something medicinal that I can't identify by sight.
Dr. Chen's expression is grave, his normally placid features tight with concern. At sixty-two, he's seen more horrors than most combat surgeons, serving as the medical authority for various underground operations for decades.
If something worries him, it's worth paying attention to.
"She's severely sleep-deprived," he begins, checking her pulse with practiced efficiency. "The kind of exhaustion that suggests she hasn't had proper rest in weeks, possibly months. Her cortisol levels are through the roof—chronic stress response that's essentially keeping her in constant fight-or-flight mode."
I nod, none of this surprising given what we know of her circumstances.
Living in Dead Knot's worst sector, constantly vigilant, hunting those who once hunted her—not exactly conducive to quality sleep.
"What's more concerning," Dr. Chen continues, lowering his voice slightly, "is the presence of certain toxins in her bloodstream. Initial tests indicate some form of environmental poisoning."
I frown, something cold and dangerous uncoiling in my chest.
"What kind of poisoning?"
"Based on the specific compounds I'm seeing, I'd say she's been exposed to volatile organic compounds for an extended period. The kind typically found in industrial paints, solvents, certain cleaning agents."
The implications hit immediately.
I have to fight off a growl.
"Someone's been poisoning her."
Dr. Chen nods grimly.
"Either deliberately or through criminal negligence. The concentrations suggest ongoing exposure—likely wherever she's living. Perhaps recently repainted, with materials containing these toxins at levels far exceeding safety standards."
"And the effects?" My voice remains steady, though my fingers twitch with the urge to access my tablet, to begin tracing every contractor, every paint supplier, every person who might have access to her living space.
"Gradual deterioration of organ function. Neurological symptoms including headaches, dizziness, fatigue. Respiratory distress. Eventually, system failure." He adjusts something on the IV drip. "It's a slow death, Mr. Eastman. Insidious. The victim often attributes symptoms to stress or overwork until it's too late."
My hands clench involuntarily, nails digging into my palms hard enough to leave half-moon indentations.
I'm already compiling a mental list of contracts that will need to be issued, backgrounds that will need to be investigated, people who will need to disappear permanently.
"Cancer?" I ask, the word tasting like ash. "Other long-term diseases?"
Dr. Chen notices my reaction, placing a steadying hand on my shoulder.
"Take a deep breath, Mr. Eastman. Your skills are needed clear-headed."
I comply, drawing air slowly into lungs that suddenly feel too tight. The doctor nods approvingly before continuing.
"I've run comprehensive panels, including focused oncology screens. No signs of malignancy, no indication of permanent organ damage—yet." He emphasizes the last word significantly. "She's been fortunate in that regard, though her overall health is still concerning."
"Explain."
"The heat suppressants she's taking are medical-grade, but they're not designed for long-term use. They're causing hormonal imbalances that, combined with poor nutrition and chronic stress, are placing extraordinary strain on her endocrine system."
I absorb this information, calculating implications.
"Prognosis if she continues on her current path?"
"Eventual system failure," Dr. Chen says bluntly. "Her body can't sustain this level of abuse indefinitely. The suppressants alone could cause permanent reproductive damage, possibly sterilization. Add in the environmental toxins, the malnutrition, the sleep deprivation—she's essentially killing herself slowly."
Relief at the absence of cancer mixes with fresh concern over this comprehensive picture of self-destruction.
"We won't let that happen," I say with more confidence than I feel. "Even if we only just met her officially."
Dr. Chen's expression softens slightly.
"I can see her resilience. She's survived circumstances that would have broken most Omegas. But recovery will require more than medical intervention. It will require trust."
"And protection," I add, the words carrying more weight than I intended.
The door slams open with enough force to rattle the medical instruments on nearby trays.
Rook fills the doorframe, his massive silhouette instantly recognizable despite the half-mask that conceals his features. The dark brown leather is spattered with what can only be blood, matching the stains on his clothing and the wild look in his exposed eyes.
"She saved my ass," I say quickly, raising my hands in a placating gesture. "And I saved her ass by bringing her here." I point to Dr. Chen, who remains admirably calm in the face of a clearly enraged Alpha. "And he saved her ass from literally self-destructing, so no killing anyone."
Rook stomps into the room, emanating the particular quality of lethal intent that makes even hardened criminals reconsider their life choices.
Dr. Chen and I step back automatically, giving him space as he approaches the examination table.
His posture changes the moment he sees her—the rigid aggression softening into something more complex, more vulnerable. One gloved hand hovers over her flushed face without touching, as if afraid she might shatter beneath his fingers.
"What happened?" he demands, the question directed at both of us, but his eyes never leaving Jessica's unconscious form.
Dr. Chen clears his throat, resuming his professional demeanor.
"Environmental poisoning, chronic sleep deprivation, malnutrition, and dangerous levels of heat suppressants in her system. She collapsed due to the combined effects of these factors, likely triggered by the physical exertion of her dance performance."
Rook's head snaps up, eyes narrowing dangerously.
"Poisoning?"
"Volatile organic compounds, consistent with industrial-grade paints or solvents. She's been exposed consistently over time, likely in her living space."
A low growl emanates from Rook's chest, the sound vibrating through the small examination room.
"The pills I gave her?—"
"Were a temporary solution at best," Dr. Chen interrupts, seemingly unconcerned by the Alpha's obvious rage. "They provided a boost to her immune system and neural function, an effect that would have on any Omega who takes them, but they can't counteract ongoing exposure to toxins."
"She passed out the other morning," Rook says, a hint of something like guilt threading through his anger. "After... after she stayed with me. I gave her one of the pills then."
"After your rendezvous morning of lust and—" I begin, unable to resist baiting him despite the circumstances.
The gunshot is so fast I barely have time to flinch, the bullet embedding itself in the wall inches from my head. I blink at the fresh hole in the plaster, impressed despite myself at his speed and accuracy even in a state of emotional compromise.
Dr. Chen sighs heavily.
"Mr. Rook, I must insist you refrain from discharging firearms in my facility. It's expressly against my policy regarding weapons."
The absurdity of his calm reprimand in the face of attempted murder nearly makes me laugh. Nearly. The thunderous expression on Rook's face suggests further provocation would be unwise, even for someone as chronically incapable of self-preservation as myself.
The door bursts open again, revealing Marcus and Bastian, both with weapons drawn.
They assess the scene in an instant—Rook standing over Jessica's unconscious form, gun still in hand; me, uncharacteristically silent by the wall; Dr. Chen looking mildly annoyed by the disruption to his medical environment.
"I see everyone's getting acquainted," Marcus says dryly, holstering his weapon with practiced ease. Bastian follows suit, though his expression suggests he's less confident about the wisdom of disarming.
Dr. Chen pinches the bridge of his nose, the gesture so human it's almost comical coming from a man I've seen perform emergency surgery during an active firefight without breaking a sweat.
"Perhaps we could all get comfortable before having a full discussion," he suggests, moving toward the intercom system. "I'll ask the nurses to bring some tea."
"Better make it alcohol," I mutter, eyeing Rook's still-tense posture. "We're going to need it."
Marcus approaches the examination table, his movements measured, controlled—everything about him designed to project calm authority in contrast to Rook's barely contained fury.
"Report," he says simply, addressing Dr. Chen but including all of us in the command.
"Ms. Vesper collapsed approximately two hours ago, assuming she was heading to class," Dr. Chen begins, falling into the clinical recitation of facts. "Mr. Eastman was monitoring as instructed and intervened before academy personnel could become involved. He transported her here via the secure route, arriving ninety-five minutes ago."
Marcus nods, his gaze assessing Jessica's condition with the same intensity he applies to tactical maps or financial reports.
"Diagnosis?"
"Multiple compounding factors," Dr. Chen repeats his earlier explanation, adding more technical details that I tune out, having already processed the relevant information.
Instead, I watch the others' reactions.
Marcus listens with perfect focus, occasionally nodding but otherwise giving nothing away. Bastian's expression darkens progressively, particularly at the mention of deliberate poisoning.
And Rook...
Rook looks like a man being flayed alive, each new detail about Jessica's condition another strip of skin removed. The hand not holding the gun clenches and unclenches rhythmically, the leather of his glove creaking with the pressure.
"The suppressants," Marcus says, honing in on a critical element. "How long has she been taking them, and what's the risk of immediate cessation?"
Dr. Chen consults a tablet displaying her blood work results.
"Based on the metabolite levels, I'd estimate consistent use for at least six years, possibly seven. As for cessation risks—significant. Her system has adapted to the artificial hormone regulation. Removing it suddenly would trigger an immediate heat, likely more intense than normal due to the years of suppression."
"And given what we know of her history, particularly traumatic," Marcus concludes, his tone neutral but his eyes shadowed with something that might be regret.
Rook makes a sound— not quite a growl, not quite a word —that draws all our attention. He's still staring at Jessica, but something in his posture has shifted from rage to a more complex emotion I can't quite identify.
"She takes them because of what happened in the alley," he says, voice low and rough. "Because of what those Alphas did to her."
It's not a question, but Marcus nods anyway.
"A reasonable adaptation to trauma. Heat makes Omegas vulnerable—physically, emotionally, psychologically. After experiencing that vulnerability exploited in the most violent way imaginable..."
He doesn't finish the thought. He doesn't need to.
We all understand the implications, the consequences, the scars that don't show on medical scans.
"And yet," Dr. Chen interjects, his professional detachment a welcome counterpoint to the emotional undercurrents swirling through the room, "continuing this regimen will eventually kill her. The suppressants alone are placing extraordinary strain on her system. Combined with the environmental toxins and other factors?—"
"How do we fix it?" Rook interrupts, holstering his weapon at last. The question comes out as a demand, but underneath I hear something I've rarely detected in his voice before.
Fear.
Dr. Chen considers the question carefully.
"Immediate removal from the toxic environment. Gradual tapering of suppressants under medical supervision. Improved nutrition, regulated sleep patterns, and stress reduction. And..." he hesitates, glancing between the four of us, "eventually, addressing the underlying trauma that necessitates such extreme measures in the first place."
"She needs a pack," Bastian says, speaking for the first time since entering. His deep voice fills the small room effortlessly, the simple statement carrying layers of meaning beyond the obvious.
Dr. Chen nods.
"The presence of bonded Alphas would significantly ease the transition off suppressants. The physiological benefits alone would increase her chances of recovery exponentially."
"She doesn't want a pack," Rook counters, the words sharp with certainty. "She's made that abundantly clear."
"What she wants and what she needs may not align," Marcus says carefully, earning a murderous glare from Rook.
"So we force her? Is that your solution?" Rook's hand twitches toward his holstered weapon. "Override her choice because we know better?"
The tension between them crackles like electricity, two apex predators circling a decision point with fundamentally different approaches.
Marcus, the strategist, weighing outcomes against costs with cold precision. Rook, the enforcer, defending individual choice with the fervor of someone who knows what it means to have autonomy stripped away.
Bastian shifts slightly, positioning himself to intervene if necessary.
I find myself calculating odds of open conflict, escape routes, potential collateral damage—old habits from years of navigating pack dynamics during periods of internal discord.
"Perhaps," Dr. Chen interrupts with practiced diplomacy, "we could focus on the immediate medical concerns before addressing longer-term arrangements. Ms. Vesper requires treatment regardless of her eventual decision regarding pack bonds."
The voice of reason in a room full of testosterone and territorial instinct.
I almost smile at his tactics—redirecting Alpha energy from conflict to protection, from competition to collaboration.
Smart man. Lived this long for a reason.
"Agreed," Marcus says, the single word carrying the weight of command.
Rook doesn't verbally assent, but his posture relaxes marginally—as close to agreement as we're likely to get.
"How long until she wakes up?" I ask, redirecting attention to practical matters.
Dr. Chen checks her vital signs again.
"The sedative will wear off within the hour. However, her body needs rest. I've administered compounds to assist with toxin elimination, but complete detoxification will take time."
"And the living situation?" Bastian asks, his tactical mind already working on logistics. "Dead Knot isn't exactly known for its wholesome accommodations."
"Out of the question," Marcus states flatly. "She cannot return to her current residence under any circumstances. The environmental hazards alone make it uninhabitable, setting aside the security concerns now that Prescott's hunters are active."
Rook's jaw tightens, but he doesn't argue the point.
Even he can't deny the logic, however much he might resent the implication of further limiting Jessica's choices.
"Where, then?" I ask, already mentally reviewing our properties, calculating security parameters, and distance from potential threats. "The mansion is obvious, which makes it a target."
"The lake house," Bastian suggests. "Remote, defensible, fully stocked medical facilities on-site."
Marcus considers this, his expression thoughtful.
"Possible. Though distance from the academy presents complications for maintaining our cover as potential suitors."
"She won't agree to any of this," Rook says with absolute certainty. "You're planning her relocation like she's cargo, not a person with her own mind."
"A mind currently compromised by toxins, exhaustion, and trauma," Dr. Chen points out gently. "Medically speaking, her decision-making capacity is impaired."
Rook's expression darkens further, but he doesn't counter the medical assessment. Instead, he moves closer to Jessica's bedside, his large frame seemingly protective rather than threatening now.
"If— when —she wakes up," he says, emphasizing the correction, "she deserves to make her own choice. With full information, without manipulation. Whether that choice aligns with our plans or not."
The declaration carries an undercurrent of warning directed primarily at Marcus, whose slight nod acknowledges both the statement and the implied threat behind it.
"Of course," Marcus agrees smoothly. "Though I hope she'll recognize the practical benefits of cooperation, at least in the short term."
A groan from the examination table interrupts whatever response Rook might have made. Jessica stirs, her eyelids fluttering though not yet opening. Her breathing pattern changes, becoming less regular as consciousness begins to return.
Dr. Chen moves quickly, checking monitors and adjusting the IV drip.
"She's waking earlier than anticipated. Her metabolism must be processing the sedative faster than standard rates."
"Another survival adaptation," I murmur, fascinated despite the gravity of the situation. "Her body recognizes sedation as danger and fights to overcome it."
Rook positions himself directly in her line of sight for when she opens her eyes, clearly understanding the importance of her seeing a familiar face first. It's a surprisingly thoughtful gesture from someone whose typical approach to problems involves significantly more violence than empathy.
Jessica's eyelids flutter again, then open halfway.
Confusion clouds her expression for a moment before awareness returns—and with it, fear. Her body tenses, hands clenching into fists as she takes in her surroundings, cataloging threats and exits with the efficiency of someone trained to expect the worst.
Her gaze lands on Rook, recognition dawning. Some of the tension leaves her frame, though wariness remains evident in every line of her body.
"Viper," she whispers, voice rough from unconsciousness. Then, correcting herself with visible effort, "Rook."
He leans closer, one gloved hand coming to rest beside hers on the examination table—not touching, but offering proximity.
"I'm here. You're safe."
She attempts to sit up, wincing as the movement pulls at the IV line. Dr. Chen steps forward to assist, but a single look from Rook halts him in his tracks.
"What happened?" Jessica asks, the question directed at Rook, but her eyes now scan the room, taking in each of us with increasing alarm. "Where am I?"
"Dr. Chen's private clinic," Rook answers before any of us can speak. "You collapsed heading to class, we can assume. Knox brought you here with Bastian."
Her gaze finds me, suspicion warring with grudging acknowledgment. "Why?"
"Because you enjoy hiding in the trees," I reply, keeping my tone light despite the seriousness of the situation. "Seemed like poor form to leave you there for Prescott's people to collect."
She flinches slightly at Prescott's name, then masks the reaction with a scowl.
"I didn't need rescuing." Her pouting lips only make her greatly attractive.
"Medical evidence suggests otherwise," Dr. Chen interjects, his professional manner seemingly immune to her hostility. "You're suffering from multiple serious conditions, Ms. Vesper, any one of which could prove fatal if left untreated."
Her expression flickers—surprise, then disbelief, then something like resignation.
"I've been managing fine."
Denial.
"You've been poisoned," Rook says bluntly, the words clearly painful for him to deliver. "Slowly. Over time. Wherever you've been living—it's toxic."
The information impacts visibly, her already pale face losing what little color remained. For a moment, she looks young— impossibly young —despite the hardness in her eyes and the defensive set of her shoulders.
"That's not possible," she says, but there's a lack of conviction in her tone. "I would have noticed. I'm trained to detect?—"
"Some toxins are designed to evade detection," Marcus interrupts, his voice gentle but firm. "Particularly those intended for slow, cumulative effect rather than immediate incapacitation."
Jessica's gaze snaps to him, hardening instantly.
"How convenient for your narrative. I'm being poisoned, so clearly I need your protection. Your pack. Your control."
The accusation hangs in the air, sharp and pointed.
Marcus accepts it without visible reaction, his expression remaining carefully neutral.
"What you need," Dr. Chen says firmly, reclaiming control of the conversation, "is medical treatment. Detoxification. Rest. Proper nutrition. A safe environment free of the compounds currently compromising your system."
Jessica's jaw sets stubbornly.
"I can arrange that myself."
"Where?" Bastian challenges, the question practical rather than confrontational. "Dead Knot's infrastructure is decaying at best, deliberately sabotaged at worst. Finding uncontaminated housing would be nearly impossible, especially on short notice."
She doesn't answer immediately, which is answer enough.
Her options are limited, her resources stretched thin, her body failing her at the worst possible moment.
"This doesn't have to be complicated," Marcus says, maintaining a respectful distance from the examination table. "We have secure properties. Medical resources. The ability to protect you while you recover—from both the toxins and Prescott's hunters."
"And in return?" she asks, the question razor-sharp with skepticism.
"In return, you consider our original proposal. Three days, as agreed. No decisions required immediately."
Jessica's gaze moves between us, calculating, assessing, looking for the trap beneath the offer of safety. Her eyes linger longest on Rook, something unspoken passing between them that even my observational skills can't fully decipher.
"And if I refuse?" she asks finally.
"Then we provide what assistance we can from a distance," Marcus answers, echoing his words from their previous conversation. "Medical supplies, security resources, intelligence on Prescott's movements. But your recovery would be significantly more challenging, your vulnerability to hunters significantly higher."
It's manipulative, of course.
Everything Marcus does has layers of calculation beneath the surface. But it's also true—she needs help, whether she's willing to admit it or not.
Jessica's hands clench in the thin hospital blanket, her internal struggle visible in the tension radiating from her slender frame. Pride warring with practicality.
Independence with survival.
"One condition," she says finally, each word seeming to cost her. "I want to see proof of the poisoning. Blood work, toxicology reports, everything. I don't take your word for it just because you wear expensive suits and speak with authority."
It's such a perfectly Jessica response— suspicious, self-protective, unwilling to cede control without verification —that I almost laugh. Despite her physically weakened state, despite being surrounded by Alphas who could easily overpower her, she's negotiating terms.
No wonder Rook's so fascinated by her.
Dr. Chen nods approvingly, as if her demand for evidence is not only reasonable but commendable.
"I've already prepared a comprehensive file. Full toxicology panels, comparison against standard baselines, detailed analysis of individual compounds detected. Would you prefer digital or physical copies?"
The question catches her off guard, the offer of choice in such a small matter clearly unexpected.
"Both," she says after a moment's hesitation. "Digital for immediate review, physical for... verification purposes."
Smart. Digital could be manipulated. Physical copies provide a secondary confirmation path.
"Of course," Dr. Chen agrees, already moving to retrieve a tablet from a nearby counter. "I'll have my assistant prepare hardcopies while you review the digital data."
Jessica accepts the tablet with hands that tremble slightly—from weakness, from drugs still in her system, from the effort of maintaining control in a situation where she has precious little.
The screen illuminates her face as she begins scrolling through information, her expression growing more troubled with each passing moment.
The silence stretches as she absorbs the medical evidence, punctuated only by the beeping of monitors and the soft sounds of Dr. Chen preparing medications at a nearby workstation.
None of us interrupt her review, recognizing the importance of allowing her this small measure of autonomy.
Finally, she looks up, her eyes finding Rook's with unerring precision.
"Fine," she says, the single word carrying layers of reluctance, pragmatism, and something that might be fear. "Temporary arrangement. Medical treatment only. The three-day decision period stands."
Rook nods once, the gesture somehow conveying more than mere acknowledgment. A promise, perhaps. An assurance that whatever happens next, her choices will be respected—even if he has to enforce that respect against his own pack.
"Where?" she asks, addressing the question to Marcus but her eyes never leaving Rook's face.
"The lake house," Marcus replies, deferring to Bastian's earlier suggestion. "Secure, isolated, fully equipped medical facilities. Approximately two hours from the academy by car."
Jessica absorbs this information, clearly mapping distances, calculating escape routes, and assessing the strategic implications of being so far from familiar territory.
"When?"
"Immediately," Dr. Chen answers before Marcus can respond. "Your condition requires prompt intervention. I've prepared a treatment protocol that can be administered at the lake house facility under proper supervision."
Another moment of silent calculation, of weighing options that all seem to lead to the same inevitable conclusion.
Then, with visible effort, Jessica nods.
"Let's go, then," she says, already attempting to disconnect the IV from her arm. "Before I change my mind."
Dr. Chen moves quickly to stop her, his hands gentle but firm as he prevents her from removing the medical equipment.
"The IV stays until we reach the secondary facility. Your body needs the fluids and medications currently being administered."
To my surprise, she doesn't argue, allowing the doctor to adjust the line instead of insisting on its removal.
It's a small concession, but significant from someone who clearly values control above comfort.
"I'll make the necessary arrangements," Marcus says, already moving toward the door. "Bastian, secure transport. Knox, technical preparations—I want the lake house systems locked down tight, security protocols at maximum."
We nod, accepting our assignments with the efficiency of long practice.
This is familiar territory—logistics, security, and preparation for contingencies. Much easier than navigating the emotional complexities that swirl beneath the surface of this unusual situation.
"And me?" Rook asks, his posture suggesting he already knows the answer but is challenging Marcus to say it aloud.
Marcus meets his gaze steadily, something unspoken passing between them—a test, a negotiation, a redrawing of boundaries.
"You stay with her," Marcus says finally. "At all times."
It's both acknowledgment and assignment, recognizing the connection between them while formalizing it within the pack hierarchy.
A clever compromise that gives Rook what he wants while maintaining Marcus's authority.
Jessica watches this exchange with narrowed eyes, clearly sensing the undercurrents, though perhaps not fully understanding their significance.
"Don't I get a say in my babysitter?"
"No," all four of us respond simultaneously, the unified front momentarily startling her into silence.
I almost smile at her expression—offended yet somehow impressed by our coordination, annoyed yet perhaps secretly relieved that the decision has been made without her input.
"I'll need alcohol for this," I mutter, half to myself. "Lots of it."
Dr. Chen sighs, his expression suggesting he's questioning his life choices.
"I'll have the nurses bring tea."
"And whiskey," Marcus adds, surprising all of us with the concession to human weakness. "I suspect we'll need both before this is done."