My Mate Broke My Hand for His Luna

The first night, I told myself I could finish a hundred cards before dawn.

I managed sixty-three.

The calligraphy brush felt like lead by the time the sky turned gray. My right hand cramped so hard I had to set the brush down and flex my fingers open one at a time, counting to ten between each one. The Healer channels in my palm throbbed—not the clean ache of pulling wolfsbane, but the dull, grinding pain of overuse. I'd diverted energy from Caiden's treatment to keep my hand steady enough to write. The guilt sat in my throat like a stone.

The trailer was cold. I'd unplugged the heating two hours ago to run the electric kettle for tea. You couldn't do both at the same time without blowing the circuit. I chose the kettle. My fingers were too stiff to hold the brush otherwise.

Caiden coughed in his sleep. I turned my head and watched his chest rise and fall, counting the seconds between breaths. Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen. Last week it was ten.

I picked up the brush again.

The second night, Caiden woke up around three in the morning and found me still at the table. The cards were stacked in neat rows across every flat surface—the counter, the top of the mini-fridge, the windowsill. His eyes moved over them slowly, then landed on my face.

"Viv."

"Go back to sleep."

"How many?"

"Almost done."

He pushed himself up on one elbow. The blanket slid down. I saw the violet veining crawling up the left side of his neck, branching like roots under his skin. "You're lying."

"I'm not."

"Let me help."

"No."

He swung his legs over the side of the cot. I was across the trailer in three steps, hands on his shoulders, easing him back down. His skin was hot under my palms. Fever. Again.

"Caiden, stop."

"You can't do this alone."

"I can. I am." I pulled the blanket back up to his chin. "Sleep. I'll wake you when I'm finished."

He stared at me for a long time. Then his eyes closed. I stayed there until his breathing evened out, my hand resting over his heart, feeling the unsteady rhythm under my palm. The wolfsbane was spreading faster now. I could feel it—thick, oily, coiling around his organs like wire.

Four to six weeks, the clinic report had said. Without pack-grade intervention.

I went back to the table and picked up the brush.

By the third night, my right hand wouldn't stop shaking. Not the small tremor I could hide by gripping the brush tighter. This was deeper. The nerve channels themselves were vibrating, protesting, threatening to shut down entirely if I didn't stop.

I didn't stop.

The last card was finished at 4:47 in the morning. I set the brush down, stared at the three hundred cards stacked and wrapped in clear cellophane, and felt nothing. No relief. No satisfaction. Just the hollow ache in my hand and the sound of Caiden's breathing behind me, slow and wet.

I made tea. Drank it standing at the window. Watched the sky turn from black to gray to the pale, sick yellow of a bruise.

Jocelyn's car pulled up at nine.

I heard the tires first—the crunch of gravel, too smooth, too expensive. Then the engine cut. The door opened. Heels on wet stone. Three sharp knocks.

I opened the door before she could knock again.

She stood on the top step in a cream coat and heels that cost more than my trailer. Her hair was perfect. Her lipstick was perfect. The smile she gave me was sharp enough to draw blood.

"Vivian." She stepped inside without waiting for an invitation. Her eyes swept the room—the cards on every surface, the cold kettle, the cot in the corner where Caiden was still asleep. Her nose wrinkled. "God, it smells like wet dog in here."

I said nothing.

She walked to the table and picked up the top card, held it up to the light, tilted her head. "Hmm."

"They're finished."

"I can see that." She set the card down and picked up another one. Frowned. "This one's smudged."

It wasn't.

"And this one." She held up a third card. "The spacing is off."

It wasn't.

She set both cards aside, away from the others. "I'll take the rest. But these two are substandard. You'll redo them."

My hand curled into a fist at my side. The Healer channels screamed.

"I don't have time to—"

"Then you should have done them right the first time." She smiled. Picked up the wrapped stacks and handed them to her driver, who'd appeared in the doorway like a shadow. "Put these in the car."

The driver took the cards and left. Jocelyn turned back to me, still smiling.

"The banquet's tomorrow night. Six o'clock. Don't be late." She paused at the door, glanced over her shoulder. "Oh, and Vivian? Wear something presentable. You're representing Ironveil now."

She left.

I stood in the open doorway and watched her car pull away, taillights disappearing down the gravel road. Then I looked down and realized the driver had taken all three hundred cards. Including the two she'd called substandard.

I closed the door.

Turned around.

Caiden was awake, propped up on one elbow, staring at me.

"Viv—"

"Don't."

My phone buzzed. I pulled it out. A text from an unknown number: *Driver will drop you at the highway. Walk home. Consider it practice for serving at the banquet.*

I stared at the screen until it went dark.

"What did she say?" Caiden's voice was rough.

I slid the phone into my pocket. "Nothing. Go back to sleep."

I grabbed my jacket.

"Where are you going?"

"Out."

I left before he could ask anything else.

The highway was six miles from the trailer. Jocelyn's driver dropped me at the side of the road and pulled away without a word, taillights vanishing into the rain. I stood there for ten seconds, water soaking through my jacket, my phone battery at four percent, and started walking.

The bond pulsed in my chest. Steady. Metronomic. Julian's contempt, leaking through like it always did, utterly unaware of where I was or what was happening. Just the constant, low-grade disgust he'd been feeding me for five years.

I walked.

My hand shook with every step. The rain turned the road into a black mirror. Cars passed, spraying water across my legs. No one stopped.

I walked all six miles.

By the time I reached the trailer, my clothes were plastered to my skin and I couldn't feel my fingers. I opened the door as quietly as I could. Caiden was asleep. I stood in the doorway and watched him breathe—seventeen seconds between inhales now—and felt the Healer instinct in my hand reach for his chest.

I had nothing left to give.

I peeled off my wet clothes in the dark, pulled on dry ones, and sat on the floor beside his cot. My hand hovered over his heart. The violet veining had spread another inch while I was gone.

Four to six weeks.

I pulled my hand back and pressed it against my own chest, over the mark that hadn't been warm in five years.

Tomorrow night. The banquet. Julian. Jocelyn. Three hundred wolves watching me serve drinks in Omega black.

The thing under my ribs stirred. Low. Warning.

I closed my eyes and counted Caiden's breaths until the sun came up.

—

The next morning, I woke to the sound of paper rustling.

Caiden was sitting up in his cot, my phone in his lap, the screen open to the banquet invitation. His face was pale. His hands were shaking.

"You're going."

I sat up. "Caiden—"

"To his wedding banquet." His voice cracked. "You're going to serve him."

"I don't have a choice."

"Yes, you do." He swung his legs over the side of the cot. Tried to stand. His knees buckled immediately.

I caught him before he hit the floor. His weight was nothing. He used to be solid, compact, strong. Now he felt like paper in my arms.

"I'm coming with you," he said into my shoulder.

"No."

"Viv—"

"No." I eased him back down onto the cot. Pulled the blanket up. My hand found his chest automatically, palm flat over his heart. The wolfsbane was everywhere now. I could feel it crystallizing around his liver, his lungs, threading through his ribs like black ice.

I didn't tell him the clinic had called yesterday. I didn't tell him they'd moved his timeline up. Three weeks now. Maybe less.

I pulled my hand back before he could feel it shaking.

"I'll be back before you wake up," I said.

He grabbed my wrist. His grip was so weak I could have pulled free without trying. I didn't.

"Viv." His eyes were wet. "Don't go."

I looked at him. Fifteen years old in his face. Nineteen in his eyes. Dying in his veins.

I pulled my wrist free gently. Stood. Walked to the door.

"I'll be back," I said again.

I left before he could say anything else.

The banquet was in six hours.