As I stepped inside, he tipped his chin once. Another warrior stepped behind me, gripping my shoulders and forcing me down into a medical chair that had clearly been prepared ahead of time, as if it had been prepared exactly for me.
“Freya’s suffering from severe anemia,” Draven said calmly, motioning to the doctor. “She needs a transfusion. You’re a match.”
I lifted my head, my voice barely steady. “Draven, I just came out of heat sickness. My body—my wolf—isn’t even fully healed yet.”
“Six hundred milliliters,” he ordered flatly, eyes on the doctor. “Begin.”
The thick, silver-tipped needle pierced my vein with brutal precision. I clenched my jaw until I tasted blood. But that pain was nothing compared to the one in my chest.
Through the cracked door, I heard the low murmur of the pack physician.
“Alpha, she recently miscarried. Her hemoglobin is critically low. This could push her into shock—”
“Spare me,” Draven cut him off, unmoved. “Freya carries my heir. She cannot wait.”
Blood siphoned from my arm in thick streams, the bag gradually filling. My vision swam.