Iris #2
“The infusion. The latest adjustment to the serum is working. Your cellular structure is shifting. It’s subtle.
It’s early stage, but the markers are unmistakable.
” He holds up the vial of my blood like it’s made of gold.
“One more treatment. That’s all it should take.
One more treatment, and we’ll achieve full integration. ”
Full integration. The words I’ve been waiting to hear for years. Full integration means the shifter blood takes hold. It means my body starts to change. To heal.
It means I might be able to have children someday. It means the thing that’s been broken in me might finally get fixed.
I should be thrilled. I should be crying with relief because all those nights spent grinding my teeth through the pain were worth it.
Instead, my stomach drops as horror starts to bloom. “Another treatment,” I murmur. “Not now, though, right?”
“As soon as possible. If we wait too long, the cellular momentum stalls, and we’d have to start the integration phase from scratch. We need to move while your body is already in flux.”
“Dad, I just… the last infusion was only last night.” I hate how weak my voice sounds, but I hate the memories more. “I was so out of it I couldn’t even… I don’t think I can handle that again. Not this soon.”
He’s already turning back to the analyzer, checking the second vial. “The discomfort is temporary. You know that. You’ve done this before.”
“It wasn’t discomfort. It was—” I hear the whimper in my voice and know it’ll only make him shut me out, so I stop and try again, steadier this time. “It hurt. Worse than any of the other times. And you said the adjustment would make it easier, but it wasn’t easier. It was worse.”
“That’s because the serum is working.” He says it patiently, as if he’s talking to a toddler instead of his grown daughter, whom he’s supposed to care about and protect. “The pain correlates with cellular engagement. More pain means more integration. This is good news.”
Pain is good news?
“You’ll be fine,” he adds, almost as an afterthought. Already thinking about the next step, the next phase. “I’ll make some modifications to the delivery rate. We’ll manage it.”
I swallow hard and nod because that’s what I do. Dad says it’s fine, so it’s fine. Dad says the pain is worth it, so the pain is worth it. I’ve been doing this for years, and I’ve never questioned it because why would I? He’s a genius. He knows what he’s doing.
How many times has Declan’s face flashed behind my eyes in the last hour? How many times have I heard his voice in my head asking me if I was okay? He crouched down to my level and brushed the hair back from my face and asked me if I was okay, and he meant it. He actually wanted to know.
I push the thought away. It’s not helping.
“The wolf they brought back,” I say instead, because the question has been clawing at me since they loaded Tara into the van. “The female. What’s going to happen to her?”
Dad barely looks up from his notes. “We have plans for him.”
I frown. “Her. The woman. Tara.”
“I’m not talking about the woman.” He sets his pen down and looks at me straight-on, and there’s something new in his expression now. Satisfaction. The look he gets when a piece falls into place. “The pack alpha. We brought him back with us. We have plans for him.”
A full-body tremor rolls through me. They have Declan.
It comes together all at once, and I have to wonder why it took this long to figure it out now that everything seems so obvious. I guess that’s how it always works. Something about hindsight being twenty-twenty.
The tranquilizer darts. The strike team. They weren’t just there to get me. They were there to take him.
This was never a rescue mission. It was a capture operation, and I was the bait. That’s why Dad left me. He knew they’d take me with them and give him a reason to invade their territory.
“He’s here?” My voice comes out wrong. Too sharp, too panicked. I try to pull it back. “In the facility?”
“Secured in a holding cell on the lower level. He’ll be sedated until we’re ready for him.” Dad picks up his pen again, already moving on. “Having a pack alpha in our custody is an extraordinary opportunity. The biological data alone will be invaluable. And given your results...”
He glances at the vial again, smiling that same, rare smile. “Having a direct source for the next phase of your treatment is ideal.”
A direct source. He means taking Declan’s blood and putting it into me.
My mouth opens, but nothing comes out. My mind is scrambling, trying to reorganize, trying to fit this into the framework I’ve built around everything I’ve believed about what we’re doing here.
Test subjects volunteer. Nobody is forced. The research helps people. The sacrifices are worth it.
Declan didn’t volunteer. Declan is in a cell, about to have his blood drained for my benefit.
“You’ve done so well, Iris.” Dad’s voice is warm now in a way it almost never is. I’ve been starving for that warmth my entire life. “This wouldn’t be possible without you. Your willingness to participate, your courage? You’ve brought us closer to success than we’ve ever been. I’m proud of you.”
Proud. He’s proud of me.
I’ve imagined hearing those words so many times.
Lying in bed after infusions, too wrung out to move, staring at the ceiling and telling myself it would all be worth it the day Dad looked at me and said he was proud.
That single thought has carried me through every needle, every morning spent dizzy and aching and dreading the next infusion.
He’s proud of me. It should fill me up and make everything worth it.
It doesn’t.
It feels hollow. Like tapping on a wall you expected to be solid and hearing nothing but an empty echo.
He’s not proud of me. He’s proud of my blood work. He’s proud that his serum is finally doing what he designed it to do, and I happen to be the test subject it’s working in.
“When do we start?” I ask, because that’s what he wants to hear. What he doesn’t want to hear is the fear and the dread, so he doesn’t. It’s that easy for him.
“Tonight.” He’s already writing, planning. “I want to run the full diagnostic first, then we’ll prep the serum. I’ll need you rested and hydrated. There’s a cot in the recovery room. You should use it.”
He doesn’t say thank you or hug me. He doesn’t even look up when I stand and walk to the door.
I make it to the recovery room and close the door behind me, then sit on the edge of the cot. Declan’s flannel is still wrapped around me, carrying his scent and reminding me how, for some reason, I felt safer tied to his bed than I do now, across the hall from my dad.
All I can do is press my face into the collar and breathe deep and try very hard not to think about the man waiting to have his blood drawn. And how stupid I must’ve sounded when I told him we’re all here of our own free will.