After My Lycan Prince Chose the Ironclaw Heiress

The diagnostic suite smelled like antiseptic and lavender oil. I'd requested the lavender myself months ago — it helped anxious patients relax during bloodwork. Today, it just made the air feel heavier.

I stood at the instrument tray, back to the door, arranging syringes I'd already arranged twice. My hands were steady. My breathing was even. The mask covered half my face and the surgical gloves felt like armor.

Sera knocked once before opening the door. "Your two o'clock is here, Dr. Ross."

"Thank you." My voice came out calm. Professional. Like this was any other appointment.

She held my gaze for a fraction of a second longer than necessary, then stepped aside.

Boston West walked in first.

The air pressure changed immediately. His Lycan aura filled the room like a physical presence — commanding, undeniable, the kind of dominance that made lesser wolves bare their necks without thinking. He wore tailored charcoal, his posture straight and assured. Every inch the prince I'd never known he was.

My wolf stirred. Not with longing. Just… recognition. A dull, distant acknowledgment that yes, this was the one who broke us.

I kept my eyes on my tablet.

Gianna Lawson followed half a step behind. She was striking in the efficient way of someone who'd learned early that beauty was a tool, not an identity. Dark hair pulled back. Neutral expression. She moved like a woman for whom this appointment was simply one item on a well-managed schedule.

I gestured to the examination chairs without looking up. "Please, sit. This will take approximately thirty minutes."

Boston's footsteps stopped. I felt his stare like a weight on the side of my face, but I didn't turn. I pulled up the screening protocol on my tablet and began reading the preliminary questions in the same tone I used for every patient.

"Any recent illnesses? Unexplained fatigue? Changes in shift duration or control?"

Gianna answered first. "No to all three."

I made notes. "And you, Your Highness?"

A pause. Then: "No."

His voice was exactly the same. Low, steady, with that faint edge of command he probably didn't even notice anymore. It used to make me feel safe. Now it just sounded like noise.

I moved through the questions methodically. Family history of bloodline conditions. Prior screenings. Documented curse markers. Gianna answered each one with brisk precision. Boston's answers came slower, his attention clearly elsewhere.

I could feel him watching me. Trying to place my voice, maybe. Or my scent, though the antiseptic and lavender masked most of it. My wolf stayed silent. She'd learned her lesson about hoping.

"I'll need a blood sample from each of you," I said, setting the tablet down and reaching for the first syringe. "Standard protocol for pre-ceremony screenings."

I started with Gianna. She extended her arm without hesitation, her expression unchanging as I tied the tourniquet and located the vein. The needle slid in clean. Dark red filled the vial.

"All set." I labeled the sample and set it aside. "Your Highness?"

Boston moved to the chair beside Gianna. He rolled up his sleeve — the same motion I'd watched him make a hundred times in the rogue-border town, back when I thought I knew him — and extended his arm.

I tied the tourniquet. His skin was warm under my gloved fingers. My wolf made a sound I barely heard.

The needle went in. Blood filled the second vial, and I was already reaching for the label when I felt it.

The decision.

I could walk out of this room and he would never know. Never see my face. Never have to carry the knowledge that the woman he'd discarded had been standing three feet away, holding his blood in a sterile vial, breathing the same air.

But Sera was right.

I deserved to face this standing up.

I set the vial down. Pulled off the tourniquet. Pressed a cotton ball to the puncture site. Then I reached up and lowered my mask.

Slowly. Deliberately. The way I removed my gloves when I needed to steel myself for something difficult.

I met his eyes.

Boston froze.

The recognition hit him like a physical blow. I watched it happen — the way his pupils dilated, the way his whole body went rigid, the way his scent spiked so sharply that even Gianna turned to look at him.

Cedar and winter iron flooded the small room. Raw and uncontrolled. His eyes flashed gold.

Kaelen. His wolf. Surging forward.

I held his gaze and didn't flinch.

"The pup was lost," I said quietly. My voice was steady. Factual. The way I delivered any difficult news to a patient's family. "Four months ago. I wish you a long life, Your Highness."

I replaced my mask. Collected my tablet. Turned toward the door.

"Alyssa—" His voice cracked on my name.

I didn't stop. Didn't look back. I walked out of the diagnostic suite with the same steady pace I'd walked out of the Crimson Crown gardens two months ago, and closed the door behind me.

The hallway was empty. Sera had cleared it.

I made it five steps before I heard the crash.

Then Gianna's voice, sharp and commanding: "Get a Healer. Now."