"It’s getting dark in here," Rion muttered.
I frowned at him. Dark? The greenhouse was glowing, its glass walls catching every glimmer of light that reflected off the stones outside. It wasn’t sunlight, no—but it was far from dark. Which meant only one thing: the poison was already clouding his vision.
Panic rose in my chest. I lifted my bleeding palm right up to his face. "Take my blood. Now."
When his hand closed around mine, I flinched. His skin was cold—unnervingly cold, like I’d just touched stone left out in the night. The chill seeped into my fingers, crawling up my arm, and I had to fight the urge to yank my hand back.
Was the poison hitting him faster than he expected? His grip was steady, but there was no warmth in it, only that eerie coldness that didn’t belong to someone alive and well. Had he eaten more petals than what’s needed?
If that was the case, then his madness went beyond reckless!
Did he really care so little about his own life that he could throw it away for the sake of a test? Or... was it that he trusted his judgment too much? That dangerous kind of confidence made him terrifying.
Our eyes locked, and he didn’t look away. Not once. There was a challenge in his gaze, a steady weight that pinned me in place as though he dared me to flinch first. Slowly, almost teasingly, he drew my hand closer.
Then his lips brushed against my palm. The contact was soft, but it sent a jolt through me, tightening every muscle in my body. I froze, my breath caught in my throat.
His mouth parted, warm and unsettling against the cut in my skin. The faint pull as he drank made my stomach twist. It wasn’t just the act—it was him. Rion, calm and unflinching, as though he wasn’t poisoned at all but savoring something forbidden.
My breath hitched without permission. The sensation was wrong, terrifyingly intimate in a way I wasn’t prepared for.
"That’s enough," I said quickly, pulling my hand away after a few sips.
My nerves were on edge. Keigan’s words came back to me: I’ve never heard of blood being used in medicine.
What if I was wrong? What if doing this made things worse?
Rion lowered himself to the ground, and my heart jumped. I thought he was going to collapse right there. I grabbed his arm instinctively, but he only meant to sit. Still, I didn’t let go.
I dropped down in front of him, not even caring about the sting in my cut palm.
His breathing was heavier now, each inhale rougher than the last. His lips parted slightly, redder than usual because they were still smeared with my blood.
The sight made me swallow hard.
Was this working? Or had I just handed him his death faster than that flower ever could? For all we know, ingesting a wolf’s blood could be deadlier...
"What if we’re wrong?" My voice trembled.
Rion didn’t look fine, not at all. He wasn’t writhing in pain or clutching his stomach, but the calm on his face didn’t feel real. It was like looking at a mask.
"I–I think it’s better to call Keigan—" I started to get up, already turning, but the sharp sound of tearing fabric froze me.
I looked down. Rion had just torn a strip from the hem of my skirt, his fingers moving with practiced ease despite how pale they looked. Before I could protest, his other hand caught mine and started wrapping the cloth carefully around my bleeding palm.
My throat tightened. My eyes prickled. He was the one poisoned, the one who might be hurting more, yet here he was patching my wound.
"I can do it," I whispered, trying to take over, but his grip didn’t loosen. His hands were cold—so cold.
"Your hands..." I swallowed hard. "They’re freezing. What are you feeling?" The words tumbled out, half-jumbled, but at least I got them out.
"I feel like dying," he said hoarsely with a crooked smile.
He tied off the cloth neatly, the knot snug but not too tight. Even like this, he was meticulous. It reminded me of his handwriting on the secret notes he used to leave me—clean, precise, so elegant to be a man’s.
I clenched my jaw. "Well, that’s what you get for being so reckless!"
My eyes locked on his. The color of his irises was dimming, literally fading. Up close, I could feel the shallow drag of his breathing against my skin. My palm moved almost on its own, reaching up to cup his jaw. His skin was ice cold under my touch.
His eyes narrowed slightly at my hand. One corner of his lips tugged upward.
"Touching me so carelessly. Aren’t you afraid of the consequences?" His words carried a warning, but his voice was soft.
I couldn’t even fake a laugh at his humor. My chest felt too tight.
"And what can you possibly do to me in such a pathetic state, great Alpha?"
"Mm. Your hand is so warm..." His lashes lowered, and then his eyes fluttered shut completely. He leaned into my palm as if he were starved for it, pressing his cheek against my skin like he could drink the heat right out of me.
A shiver slipped down my spine. His skin was rough and frighteningly cold, and the contrast made my palm feel like it was burning. The longer he lingered there, the more I realized just how fast his warmth was slipping away.
"And you’re getting colder," I whispered, my throat tightening. "I don’t think it’s working at all. Let me go find Keigan—"
I shifted to pull back, but froze when his hand rose and covered mine, the one still cradling his face. His fingers trembled faintly, but the grip itself was firm, pinning me in place with a stubborn kind of strength.
His eyes snapped open, dim ocean but still sharp enough to pierce through me. For a moment, I forgot how to breathe.
"Don’t leave," he murmured.