Page 48 of Knot Gonna Lie
Seth raised an eyebrow at our alpha’s uncharacteristic compliance with medical orders, but said nothing as he guided Elara toward the corridor.
I watched them disappear before turning back to Nova, seeing her properly for the first time—the shadows beneath her eyes, the tension in her shoulders, the way she held herself like someone expecting disappointment. “I’ll be back,” I promised, my voice ragged with exhaustion. “Give me an hour to make sure my pack is cared for.”
I looked toward Alleria, then to the rest of the clan lingering along the mess hall walls, drawn by the commotion. “Maia, Tobias—could you prepare some refreshments? Our dinner was…interrupted.” The understatement fell flat in the charged air, but they nodded in understanding.
As I followed my injured clanmates to the infirmary, leaving Nova with her secrets and Alleria watching silently, the weight of everything finally hit me. Physical pain radiated from my temple, emotional exhaustion pulled at my bones, and somewhere beneath it all, a question echoed through the corridors of my mind:
What have we gotten ourselves into?
CHAPTER NINETEEN
LUCA
The infirmary felt suffocating with all of us crowded inside—Elara perched on the examination table like a wounded warrior queen, Seth preparing supplies with hands that betrayed the slightest tremor, Jaxom hovering like a satellite torn between gravitational pulls. The encounter with Nova had shaken us all, but none more than Elara, whose carefully constructed confidence had fractured the moment she’d scented another omega in her claimed territory.
My alpha instincts screamed warnings on multiple frequencies—injured clan, territorial threat, potential unknown dangers still lurking in the station’s shadows. Every nerve demanded I gather my people and flee this cursed place before more blood was spilled. But first, I had to tend the wounds we’d already suffered.
“Let me see your hand,” I said, approaching Elara with the same care I’d use for a spooked star-dove, all gentle movements and non-threatening posture. “We must make sure that it doesn’t scar.”
I reached for her hand and started unwrapping the bandage that had come loose. She didn’t stop me, but her fingers stayed curled tight.
“Elara,” I sighed. “Please…”
She opened her hand, slow and reluctant—and I saw it.
The wound had split back open, the skin angry and raw. Her palm welled crimson, the blood fresh, hot, proof of how tightly she’d been holding on. Rage had kept her moving, burning through her like fuel—and torn her open all over again.
I’d underestimated how bad her injury was—missed the signs, failed to protect her. It sent my alpha instincts into overdrive.
Failed. Failed to see. Failed to shield. Failed—
“Don’t.” Her free hand touched my face, unexpectedly gentle. She read the guilt in me like it was written on my skin. “You were busy ensuring they couldn’t touch me. This?” She lifted her wounded palm. “This was my choice.”
“You shouldn’t have had to choose violence.” I held her injured hand carefully, examining the wound while Seth assembled cleaning supplies with clinical precision. “That’s my role—to stand between you and harm.”
“Your role is what I say it is.” Despite everything—the pain, the exhaustion, and the territorial strain—her command held firm. “And I won’t be some helpless omega who watches while others bleed for her.”
Pride and worry tightened in my chest. She’d crossed that arena like she owned it, faced Owen without flinching, marked her claim in crystal and blood. She was fierce. Fearless. And she was mine.
But magnificence didn’t negate the bone-deep terror I’d felt watching her move into violence. The way she’d stepped between threat and clan without hesitation, the precision with which she’d wielded that improvised weapon, the absoluteconviction in her voice as she’d declared us hers—it had been breathtaking and horrifying in equal measure.
What if she’d been hurt worse? What if Owen had turned on her instead of retreating? What if—
“Seth, see to Elara first,” I instructed, though it killed me to step away from her. “I’ll examine Jaxom and make sure that hit he took didn’t scramble anything vital.”
“I’mfine,” Jaxom protested automatically, but the bruise blooming across his temple in vivid purples and murky greens suggested otherwise. Blood had dried in a rusty trail from the cut Marcus’s ring had opened, and his eyes held the glassy sheen of someone potentially fighting off concussion symptoms.
“You’re getting examined.” Alpha command threaded through the words, leaving no room for argument. “I won’t have my pack hiding injuries out of misplaced stoicism.”
I guided him toward the secondary examination chair, noting how he favored his left side where he’d taken that brutal backhand. My hands moved with practiced efficiency, checking for hidden damage—whether caused by his own stubbornness or something more serious he hadn’t mentioned.
The scanner painted a relief-inducing picture—minor concussion, some tissue damage, but nothing that wouldn’t heal cleanly. Still, the sight of his injuries sent fury through my veins like molten metal. Marcus would pay for every bruise, every drop of blood spilled.
If I ever see him again, I’ll tear his throat out with my bare hands.
Owen was no exception. He made a scene—ruinedElara’s last night on Syzygy Station—and he’d pay for it. One way or another.
From across the medical bay, Elara’s voice cut through my dark thoughts with surgical precision. “What does your sister want, Jaxom?”
