Chapter 390
Chapter 390:
The sterile scent of the clinic was violently obliterated by the acrid, sickening stench of burning flesh and melting metal. A blinding flash of light seared my retinas. Then came the agony—a tearing, soul-shredding pain that ripped through my chest. I heard it then, echoing in the hollow cavern of my mind: the final, agonizing howl of my Inner Wolf as she was violently stripped from my soul by the lethal poison of silver.
The scene shifted abruptly. The flames vanished, replaced by the blinding, sterile white glare of an operating room light. The frantic, high-pitched beeping of a heart monitor assaulted my ears. A tearing, visceral pain ripped across my abdomen.
Through the chaotic blur of green scrubs and panicked voices, a sound pierced the veil of my fading consciousness. A cry. Weak, desperate, and undeniably alive.
“It’s a boy, a pup. Vitals are weak,” a nurse’s voice echoed, sharp and urgent.
“No!” I gasped, my hand reaching out toward the phantom sound.
My eyes snapped open. I jolted upright on the leather recliner, my chest heaving as I gasped for air. Cold sweat drenched my clothes. The heart rate monitor clipped to my finger blared a frantic, continuous warning.
“Carmella, you’re safe. You’re in my office,” Dr. Finch said immediately, shutting off the light bar and stepping into my line of sight.
𝖢𝘩i𝘯e𝗌e no𝗏𝘦𝗹𝘀 t𝗿𝘢𝗇ѕ𝗹𝖺𝘵𝗲𝖽 о𝘯 𝗴𝖺𝗅ոo𝘃е𝘭𝗌.𝗰о𝗆
“I had a baby,” I choked out, my hands trembling violently as I pressed them against my stomach. “It wasn’t just a car crash. I had a pup. I heard him cry p>
Dr. Finch maintained his clinical neutrality, though his eyes held profound sympathy. “Carmella, trauma is complex. The permanent loss of an Inner Wolf is a devastating psychological blow. In EMDR, the subconscious can sometimes manifest deep-seated fears—like the loss of fertility or identity—as physiological, hallucinatory memories. Before we draw conclusions that contradict your entire medical history, we need objective evidence p>
His calm, rational doubt felt like a bucket of ice water. He didn’t believe me. He thought my broken, wolfless mind was inventing ghosts.
I ripped the pulse oximeter off my finger. “I’ll get your evidence,” I whispered, grabbing my coat and rushing out the door.
An hour later, I was locked inside my dark Chelsea apartment. The harsh blue light of my computer monitor illuminated my tense face. The encrypted chat client scrolled rapidly as my hired hacker breached the outer firewalls of Massachusetts General Hospital.
Warning, the hacker typed. The cold-storage servers are guarded by ‘Shadow Network’ encryption protocols. This is a suicide mission.
Double the payout, I typed back, my fingers flying across the keys. Just get me in.
Three-minute window. Downloading now.
A progress bar appeared on my screen. Ten percent… forty percent… eighty percent…
I stared at the file name. It bore a glaring red digital stamp: CLASSIFIED — SEALED BY ORDER OF THE CONTINENTAL PACK COUNCIL.
Why would the highest authority in the werewolf world seal the medical records of a supposed human orphan?
At ninety-nine percent, the screen flashed red. Connection severed by intrusion countermeasures. But the file icon dropped onto my encrypted USB drive just in time.
My hands shook as I decrypted the PDF and opened it.
I scrolled past the blood loss reports and the blunt force trauma notes, my eyes locking onto the OB/GYN surgical summary. Patient suffered placental abruption secondary to a silver weapon ambush. Emergency C-section performed. Permanent dormancy of the Inner Wolf confirmed.