The Alpha Marshal's Regretful Annulment

Preston's eyes remained fixed on the bruise. His military training catalogued it with cold precision-defensive wound, grip strength consistent with an SSS-grade Beastkin in distress, no sign of self-infliction. The evidence was damning, but not for her.

His jaw tightened. He had been so certain. So ready to condemn her. The shame was unfamiliar, and he didn't know what to do with it.

Georgia watched him, reading the micro-expressions flickering across his face. The doubt. The recalculation. She was still trembling-she couldn't stop-but her mind was clear and sharp and cold.

"Marshal Kensington was already collapsing when I woke up," she said, her voice steadier now. "He told me to get out. I tried. He-" She let her gaze drop to the bruise on her wrist. "He lost control."

Preston took a step toward the unconscious tiger, crouching to check his uncle's vitals. His brow furrowed. "What stopped him?"

Georgia reached into the wreckage near the nightstand and retrieved the empty auto-injector. She held it up. "Suppressant. Military-grade. There was a first-aid kit in the drawer."

Preston's eyes narrowed. "You expect me to believe a Null-Female got close enough to an SSS-grade Beastkin in full rampage to inject him?"

"Believe what you want." Georgia's voice was flat. "I'm still here. He's still alive. That's all that matters."

A muscle in Preston's jaw twitched. He wanted to argue, to find some flaw in her story, but the evidence surrounded him. The shattered furniture. The claw marks. Her injuries. And the simple, irrefutable fact that his uncle was breathing and she was not dead.

The sound of hurried footsteps approached the door. Military boots. Then the door swung open, and a team of medical personnel in white hazmat suits filed in, the Institute of Sciences emblem on their chests.

"Lord Preston," the lead doctor acknowledged with a curt nod. Her eyes swept the room with professional detachment, taking in the wreckage, the unconscious tiger, the battered woman huddled on the floor. "We need to stabilize the Marshal immediately."

"Get him out of here," Preston ordered. "Full workup. Tox screen. Atmospheric samples. Everything."

The team moved with swift efficiency. A hovering anti-grav stretcher was maneuvered into position. As they worked, Preston turned to the door-where Meredith had reappeared, her expression a careful mask of concern.

"I told you to leave," he said.

"I was worried about my sister." Meredith's gaze slid past him to Georgia. "The reporters are still outside. They have questions. The public will want answers about what happened here tonight."

Georgia felt the trap closing. Meredith wanted her outside, facing the cameras, where a single wrong word could be twisted into a confession. Last time, she had crumbled under that pressure. This time-

"I have nothing to hide," Georgia said quietly, pushing herself to her feet. The torn nightgown, the bruises, the exhaustion-all of it was armor now. "Let them ask."

Meredith's eyes widened. This wasn't the script. "Georgia, you're in shock. You shouldn't-"

"She can speak for herself." Preston's voice cut through Meredith's protest. There was something new in the way he looked at Georgia now. Not trust. Not yet. But a willingness to listen.

He stepped aside, and Georgia walked past him, past Meredith, and into the hallway where the reporters waited like wolves.

The camera flashes resumed. Questions flew at her from all directions.

"Princess Shields, is it true-"

"Were you alone in the room with-"

"Did you administer the Pheromone Inducer yourself?"

Georgia stopped in the center of the corridor. She let them see her-the torn clothing, the bruises, the exhaustion. And then she lifted her injured wrist, turning it so the cameras could capture every brutal detail.

"I didn't drug anyone," she said, her voice carrying clearly through the chaos. "I was the one who called for help. I was the one who administered the emergency Suppressant that saved Marshal Kensington's life."

She paused, letting the silence stretch.

"Ask Lord Preston what he found when he arrived. Ask the medical team what they're testing for right now. And ask my stepsister-" her gaze flicked to Meredith, "-why she disabled the electronic lock before bringing all of you here."

The accusations hung in the air like a blade.

Meredith's face went white. "That's-that's absurd. I would never-"

But the reporters had already swiveled toward her, sensing a juicier story than the one she had promised them.

Georgia didn't wait to see the outcome. She turned and walked toward the elevator, her bare feet silent on the marble floor. No one stopped her.

---