The Truth in the Hospital Room

The drive to the hospital was a blur of rage and adrenaline. All I could think about was Leo—my son—lying in that hospital bed because of her. Because I'd trusted her with my child when every instinct screamed at me not to.

I pushed through the hospital doors, ignoring the startled faces of nurses who recognized me. The Alpha of Silver Crescent wasn't someone you saw storming through hospital corridors every day.

When I reached Leo's room, I paused outside the door. I needed to compose myself. Leo was already traumatized enough without seeing his father in a blind rage. I took three deep breaths, straightened my tie, and pushed open the door.

Leo was sitting up in bed, his small body dwarfed by the hospital equipment surrounding him. His face was still puffy, but the angry red hives had receded. His eyes—so much like mine—widened when he saw me, but they held none of the joy I was accustomed to seeing.