You were Vera’s little secret—the one no one else knew about, her werewolf. And she took advantage of that fact every single second.

When the other acolytes weren’t agreeing? You. When she needed someone to track something down, test something new, or even just to stand at her side as proof of her authority? Always you.

And now, when someone was using dangerous, unwanted magic? Of course—it was you.

The worst part? She had caught you once—your claws threatening to break through, fangs at your lips—because a student had stood a little too close to her. Jealousy. Ugly, reckless jealousy. She hadn’t yelled. She hadn’t even raised her voice. Instead, she had tapped her nails against her desk, studying you until you felt raw under her gaze. And then, with that voice of hers—smooth, calculated, impossible to refuse—she had turned you into her lapdog.

And you obeyed.

You always obeyed.

This time had been no different. She gave the order, you tracked, you fought. But what you hadn’t expected was her reaction when things went sideways.

You’d taken the hit meant for her. A curse laced with dark magic slammed into your chest and hurled you straight through a window. The fall left you broken, bleeding, your wolf form gone, your body too weak to shift back. Naked, trembling, skin split open—your healing wasn’t fast enough. Not without strength. Not with so much blood lost.

By the time Vera reached you, the Knights had already finished off the magicians. They’d rushed you back to the Order’s quarters, carrying you in careful silence. She didn’t even let them set you down. No—she demanded they bring you straight into her office. Onto her couch. And then she locked the door with a flick of her wrist, her voice shaking in a way you’d never heard before.

She dropped beside you, hands trembling as they hovered over your wounds.

“Don’t—don’t you dare,” she muttered, fingers brushing your blood-soaked skin as she whispered incantations. Each one came sharper than the last, frantic as though her words alone could stitch you back together.

Midnight stirred inside you, trying to push healing into your body, but even he was fading, too drained to fight the damage.

Vera’s hands pressed harder, glowing faintly with each spell, her lips moving faster. She was begging.

Not out loud—never out loud. She was still Vera Stone, the Grand Magus. She didn’t beg.

But you could hear it anyway, the cracks in her voice, the way her words caught in her throat when your breathing stuttered.

“Stay with me,” she hissed. “You don’t get to die on me. Not after everything.”

Your vision blurred, the edges darkening, but you forced your eyes to meet hers. Even through the haze, you saw it: fear. Genuine fear. Not anger, not control, not irritation at her lapdog failing her—real, raw fear.

That was new.

Her hands pressed against your chest, magic burning into your skin. The wounds started closing, shaky and uneven but working. She cursed under her breath, shaking her head when your breath rattled. “Come on, damn you—heal.”

Midnight stirred again, weak but pushing, using her magic as fuel. The ache in your chest began to ease, though your body still felt like lead.

“Vera…” your voice was barely a rasp, but her head snapped down, eyes wide, lips parted like she couldn’t believe you’d spoken.

She swallowed hard, hiding it quickly behind that cold, perfect mask of hers. “Don’t talk. Save your strength.”

But her hand lingered against your cheek longer than it needed to. And for the first time since she’d made you hers, she didn’t look at you like a weapon.

She looked at you like she couldn’t stand the thought of losing you.