Chapter 22 The Price Of Power

Morgan POV The pack house is a citadel of shadows tonight, every corner bristling with tension, every breath a struggle to hold it all together. I hover over Clara’s cot in the back room, her chest rising slow, too slow, her face gray in the dim lantern light. Clots spatter her shirt, her hands, the floor — her magic saved us, and it’s killing her now, draining whatever blood is left. My hands curl into fists and my nails dig into my palms, the pain a welcome distraction from the anger rising up from my gut. I failed her. Failed Fynn. Failed them all.