After My Lycan Prince Chose the Ironclaw Heiress

Two months passed like water through a sieve — present, moving, leaving almost nothing behind except the steady accumulation of work. I rebuilt myself the only way I knew how: one protocol at a time, one patient at a time, one night shift where I was too tired to think about anything except the next suture.

The pup was gone by the end of the first month. A quiet, private loss that happened in my apartment with only Rowan present. She held my hand and said nothing, which was exactly what I needed. We didn't talk about Boston. We didn't talk about the Crimson Crown. We talked about cellular degeneration rates and whether the experimental protocol needed a third phase of trials.

I went back to work the next day.

Rowan didn't stop me. She just watched me with those steady, assessing eyes and adjusted my patient load so I wasn't doing physical examinations for a week. Small mercies from a woman who understood that sometimes the only way through grief is to work until your hands are too busy to shake.

The Crimson Crown bloodline curse consumed my research hours. I read everything — old pack records, Lycan medical journals, case studies from Healers who'd tried and failed to slow the cellular breakdown. The curse was elegant in its cruelty: a hereditary condition that degraded the bond between wolf and human consciousness, slowly starving the wolf until it faded entirely. Terminal in most cases. Untreatable in all of them.

Dr. Kelly and I developed the protocol together, working late into the night in her private lab. She never asked why I was so focused on this particular condition. She just handed me research notes and asked sharp questions that made the work better.

We co-published under both our names. The paper made quiet waves in Healer circles — not enough to be flashy, but enough that my clinical reputation began to extend beyond Moonveil's borders. I was invited to consult on two cases in neighboring territories. I declined both. I wasn't ready to leave the safety of my own clinic yet.

My wolf stayed silent. Not gone — I could still feel her, a low constant presence like tinnitus — but muted in a way that felt permanent. She didn't push for shifts anymore. Didn't rise toward other wolves' scents. She just existed, quietly, like someone who'd learned that hoping for things only led to disappointment.

I understood the feeling.

Sera Voss started bringing me tea during night shifts. She was one of the senior Healers, older than Rowan, with silver threading through her dark hair and the kind of steady competence that made patients trust her immediately. She never asked questions. Just set the tea down on my desk, squeezed my shoulder once, and left.

I didn't realize she knew until much later.

The morning the scheduling request came through, I was in the archive room pulling files for a bloodline diagnostic I was running on a young wolf from the eastern border. Sera found me there, standing between two tall shelves with my arms full of folders.

"Alyssa," she said. Her voice was calm. Too calm. The way people sound when they're about to tell you something you won't want to hear.

I looked up. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong." She stepped closer, her hands folded in front of her in that particular way Healers stand when they're delivering bad news to family members. "We have a scheduling request. Pre-ceremony bloodline screening. Lycan Prince and his intended mate. Dr. Kelly's suite."

My hands tightened on the folders. I didn't say anything.

Sera watched me. "It's routed to Rowan. But I can reassign it to you if you want."

"Why would I want that?" My voice came out flat. Professional.

"Because you deserve to face it standing up," Sera said quietly. "Masked. On your own terms. In your own clinic."

I stared at her. She knew. Somehow, she knew. Maybe Rowan had told her. Maybe she'd just watched me come back from the Crimson Crown territory two months ago with dead eyes and put the pieces together herself.

"I don't need to face anything," I said.

Sera nodded slowly. "All right. Then I'll leave it with Rowan."

She turned to go.

"Wait." The word came out before I could stop it. Sera paused, her hand on the doorframe, and looked back at me.

I set the folders down on the nearest shelf. My hands were steady. My breathing was even. "When?"

"Tomorrow afternoon. Two o'clock."

I nodded once. "Reassign it."

Sera's expression didn't change, but something in her eyes softened. "I'll update the schedule."

She left. I stood there in the archive room for a long time, surrounded by files on bloodline conditions and hereditary curses, and felt my wolf stir for the first time in weeks. Not hope. Not longing. Just a low, quiet awareness that something was coming.

I went back to my office and pulled up the Crimson Crown protocol files. I read through them again, even though I had them memorized. Then I cleaned my desk, organized my instruments, and laid out a fresh set of surgical gloves.

Tomorrow, Boston West would walk into my clinic. And I would be ready.