Page 50 of What a Wolf's Heart Decides

Then he was going to yell at her for disobeying his order to stay in the house. Right after he got done ripping Rupert a new one for taking her up the side of the damn mountain on the warmest day they’d had since October.

His gums ached, and his mouth filled with saliva as his fangs threatened to descend.

Rupert seized his arm. “Wait! There.” He pointed.

A lock of curling, light brown hair fluttered against the snow.

Bard’s heart skipped a beat. He shrugged off Rupert’s hold. Voice an octave below human range, he ordered, “Keep digging.”

They tore into the snow, clearing it from Haley’s face. She was pale, her lips tinged blue.

His heart stuttered again. Werewolves could survive a lot, but they weren’t immortal. If she dies . . .

“NO.” His wolf’s denial clanged through his brain like the gong of a bell. The beast didn’t have the power of human speech, but it knew how to make its feelings known.

Bard ignored the beast. Sending a mental reply required focus, and he needed every ounce of concentration to stay upright.

Rupert stopped and sucked in a breath. “I got this.”

Bard met his gaze.

The other man took one look at him and quickly glanced away, his head bowed. His voice shook. “Please.” Head down, he held up his fists. “I’ll get her out.”

Bard stepped back. “Do it.”

Hands still tightly balled, Rupert pulled his arms back, then punched his fists into the ice on either side of Haley’s head. Snow flew like it had been hit with a torpedo, icy spray pelting Bard’s face and jacket.

He swiped moisture from his face.

Rupert bent and pulled Haley from the debris. Loose snow clumped in her hair, which trailed over Rupert’s arm like a brown flag, the long ends brushing the ice.

“Put her down,” Bard said, his wolf in his voice.

Rupert trudged clear of the hole, then lowered her to the surface of the snow. Her arm flopped onto the white, her fingers limp and blue. Her head lolled to the side. She had no color, but she was still beautiful—like a sleeping princess on a bed of ice.

Except she didn’t have a heartbeat.

Leg on fire, Bard dropped to his knees without worrying about how much he’d pay for it later. Right now, Haley Michaels’ heart wasn’t pumping.

Rupert crouched on her other side. “What can I do, Alpha?”

Bard unzipped her jacket and ripped her shirt open, buttons popping. “Stay out of the way.” He dipped his head to her chest and put his ear against her sternum.

Nothing. Not even the telltale quiver of a heart in fibrillation.

“She’s asystole,” he muttered. In a human, the treatment was epinephrine, chest compressions, and a whole bunch of swearing.

But Haley wasn’t human, which meant he had another trick up his sleeve.

He wiped his hands on his pant legs, brushing off the cold and snow. Then he placed his palms on her bare chest. Her bones were delicate under his hands, her rib cage like a fine sculpture.

But her skin was as cold as the snow spread around them.

Hurry.

He wasn’t sure if the admonishment came from him or the wolf. Maybe it was both. But the origin didn’t matter. He bowed his head, closed his eyes, and summoned his Gift. Pressure built in his chest—as if a storm gathered there. He’d seen videos of tornadoes forming, of the ominous, swirling clouds coming together and then whipping faster and faster. He imagined the same happening in his core. It was like some metaphysical combination of heat and pressure.

The force grew, somehow both squeezing and expanding, until his own ribs ached and he thought the top of his head might blow off. When they trained, Healers learned to recognize the pressure as both a sign and a warning.

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