The Alpha Donated His Kidney to Make Sins

I cut the healer off before she could spill the beans. "I know my own body-no need to grill me about it."

Preston eased down on the edge of the bed, studying me for a long stretch before taking my hand, light as a whisper. "I had the pack cook whip up some porridge. How about a bite?"

I mustered a smile that felt all wrong, twisted. "Sure."

He popped the lid on the thermos, ladled out a small bowl, and scooped up a spoonful, holding it to my lips.

Madeline's brand of porridge.

The same doting moves he'd pull for her.

I swatted his hand away, the whole bowl tumbling to the floor in a splatter.

I grabbed a tissue and wiped my palm slow, deliberate. "Sorry 'bout that. I can't stand red dates-or sweet slop like this. Five years on the job, and the cook still doesn't know my tastes? Wasted effort on your part. Fire him."

Preston buzzed the guards to clean up the mess, his cool holding steady. "What sounds good? I'll have him rustle up something else."

I clammed up.

He rang the cook, quizzing her on my prefs, then rattled off dish after dish, watching for a twitch from me.

"Shrimp and grits-that's the one," he said finally.

I shot back icy. "This mess with me? None of the Lewis pack's business. Hit the trail-no point wasting your time here. We're unbound anyway!"

He tuned me out, ducked into the washroom for a fresh towel, then came back to dab at my hands and face.

Back when I'd begged him to show, ears deaf.

Now I was shoving him out the door, and still? Deaf.

I chucked the water glass at him. "Get lost!"

His shirtfront soaked through; he didn't even glance down. Just swept everything off the nightstand into my reach. "Keep hurling. Once you're out of ammo, we'll finish the wipe-down. Sticky with sweat like that? You're the one squirming."

So I pelted him-everything within paw's reach.

When the barrage ran dry, he gathered it all up, set it back in my lap.

Third round, I was tapped out. Let him tend me like some bedridden elder, sponging me down gentle.

He spoon-fed me the meal after, and then his phone chimed that special tone.

He stood. "Madeline's still in her recovery moon-body's fragile. Gonna check on her."

All night, he never circled back.

Morning rounds, my healer buddy swung by and cornered me. "Why hide the miscarriage from him last night? When he hauled you into emerg, his chest wound was gushing-folks begged him to get it wrapped, and he blew 'em off. Waited till you were out of the chop shop. Crystal, if you'd clocked that lost-pup look on him, you'd know he cares. Deep."

"I know-I had a sliver of awareness, felt it hit," I said, staring out the window till the light stung my eyes shut. "That's what scares me. If he aches for me even a whisker, I'll tumble right back in. My bar for him... it's basement-low."

But a life stretched between us-a ghost he'd never vault to reach my heart.

This bout wrecked me, down to the bones.

I holed up in the hospital five days, then ghosted home for a full week's bedrest.

Those five days, Preston cleared his slate-first time ever-and stuck by me like glue. The next week? Off on pack business.

But from the taunting vids and snaps Madeline kept firing my way, I knew he'd dragged her along for the ride.

Preston always hated mixing work with play. Early in our bond, when I'd beg to tag along and smooth his trail, he'd shut it down-said I was too flighty.

Now? Who knew how many exceptions he'd carved out for her.

*Never hit Shalandra Town before-told Preston, and boom, he hitches me on. Your mate's a real softie, huh?*

*He shows me the spinning lounge, Disney's wonderland-swears he'll open up the whole wide world for me someday.*

*These shots? All his lens work. I'm snap-happy; he humored me two hours straight. Your mate's patient as a saint, and the eye? Killer!*

Not one of those perks had ever come my way.

No clue his heart ran that tender, that pliable. Or that he could frame a shot like a pro...

Pathetic, really.

Piecing together my own mate from scraps off another she-wolf.

I thumbed back: *No bedroom pics? You holding out on him?*

Dead air, instant.

Phone tossed aside, I hollered for the housekeeper. "Pack up every last thing of Preston's. Box it."

This house? Dad's gift to me for the bond-a love nest I'd dreamed up and decked out myself, back when my head swam with stars.

Week out, unbound time. The one hitting the road? Him.