Even though the injury wasn't severe, Hank roared in shock, instinctively recoiling and shoving her away with brutal force. Boris reacted instantly, surging forward and placing himself between Hank and his daughter, grabbing Hank's arm in a vise-like grip, stopping him from potentially shattering Trinity's ribs with the force of his blow. He could cave in her chest with that kind of strength. A low growl rumbled in his chest, a warning meant only for Hank's ears. He lashed out with his mind link, the mental snarl sharp and furious.
Are you trying to kill my daughter?! he snarled mentally, the psychic blow causing Hank to clutch his head, a grimace of pain twisting his features.
She stabbed me! Hank said simply, his voice still laced with shock.
I don't care what she did. You don't touch my daughter, Boris responded firmly, his mental voice unwavering. Trinity didn't possess the strength or the knowledge for a killing blow. This was his pride that was wounded.
"Forgive my daughter. She is clumsy," he said aloud, his tone brooking no argument, implying that this was an unfortunate accident, not an intentional act, and certainly not something to be upset about.
Hank's eyes narrowed momentarily on the beta's daughter, a flicker of something unreadable passing across his face, before he quickly looked away, his attention returning to his table.
With a tight, almost imperceptible nod, Hank acknowledged his beta, accepting the unspoken truth. He had already faced Boris's private reprimand; he had no desire for a public repeat.
"Shit." Trinity cried .
As if a switch had flipped, reality crashed back into Trinity. The searing pain in her hand finally registered, the jagged edges of glass embedded deep in her skin. The entire time she had moved, a part of her had desperately wanted to stop, a frantic internal struggle against a force that had taken over her body, acting on her darkest impulses. And now she was left to suffer the consequences. She didn't know if she was in trouble, but her hand felt like it had been severed, the nerve endings screaming in protest.
Tears welled in the corners of her eyes as she whimpered in pain, looking up to see her father holding her injured hand, his expression etched with concern. Even through the haze of pain, she instinctively wanted to pull away from him, rejecting his touch as if it would somehow contaminate her.
More tears tracked through the smudges on her cheeks as she whimpered, her gaze fixed on the blood blooming on her palm. The man holding her hand, Hank, looked down at her with a furrowed brow.
Even while her hand throbbed, she fought the urge to recoil. She didn't want his help, didn't want anything from him. In her pain-addled state, she would have preferred the cold indifference of a jail cell over his unwanted solicitude. With slow, clumsy movements, she tried to extract her hand from his grasp.
Feeling the slight resistance, Boris hesitated. He longed to hold on, to offer comfort, but the raw fear in her eyes held him back. He couldn't bear to inflict more pain, even unintentionally. Reluctantly, he released her.
"Jesus Christ Trin!" Ryan's curse was sharp, his eyes wide with shock as he took in the mangled state of her hand. Gently, he rested his own hand beneath hers, his gaze locking with hers, a silent question in his eyes: What the hell just happened? He knew she was lucky her father had reacted so quickly, his presence somehow radiating an authority that had kept the other guests at bay. She had been dangerously close to serious harm, and he wasn't even sure she comprehended the gravity of her actions.
Looking around, Ryan noted the strange normalcy that had descended upon the party once more. Most people seemed to be pointedly ignoring the scene, their conversations resuming as if nothing untoward had occurred. He suspected it was Beta Carter's doing, a subtle exertion of influence to keep the peace, to treat this violent outburst as a mere blip on the radar of their carefully constructed welcome. The setting sun cast long, distorted shadows across the lawn, the festive lights strung through the trees now taking on a slightly sinister glow.
"I'll bring you to the pack doctor," Boris said, his voice softer now, tinged with a hesitant concern. He reached out a hand towards her shoulder, a tentative gesture, but Trinity flinched violently, recoiling as if his touch would burn her. She stumbled back, almost falling into Ryan, her eyes wide with a distrust that pierced Boris's heart.
The action was like a physical blow to Boris. He loved his daughter, a fierce, protective instinct warring with the crushing weight of his past failures. He couldn't reconcile the raw terror in her eyes with the incandescent rage she had just displayed. The intensity of her emotions felt disproportionate, almost a punishment directed solely at him.
Boris spoke to her in a low, soothing voice, hoping to cut through the lingering adrenaline. "It's this way." He turned and led them towards a discreetly placed building nestled amongst the trees, the medical wing. A few figures in white moved within, tending to some of the older attendees. The air here was quieter, the sounds of forced merriment muffled.
"Beta Carter," a nurse greeted him with a respectful smile and a slight bow of her head, her gaze then shifting to the two younger people behind him. Her eyes registered the bloodied hand instantly, understanding dawning in her expression.
Nurse Becky's touch was surprisingly gentle as she began to examine Trinity's hand. Each tiny shard of glass seemed to take an eternity to extract, a searing pain that made Trinity's vision swim. By the time the last sliver was removed, her left hand felt alien, as if the ability to clench it had been stolen. With every painful flinch, she wondered why no one had offered to numb the throbbing.
Boris felt a phantom echo of his daughter's pain. Each wince was a fresh stab of guilt. He fought the urge to demand more urgency from the nurse, but he knew the careful precision was necessary. Still, a primal protectiveness surged within him, a desperate need to shield her from any further suffering. Only a day, and already he had failed to keep her safe. It didn't matter that she had inflicted the injury herself; his failure lay in not preventing the situation from escalating.
Nurse Becky, however, harbored a different sentiment. In her mind, the girl deserved this pain. Stabbing Mr. Dean was an unconscionable act. Trinity's mother, Alana, the head of the pack clinic, had mind-linked her the details of the altercation, a silent query about whether the disruptive defective would require their services. As she worked, a subtle, almost imperceptible glow emanated from her eyes, a faint shimmer that betrayed the silent conversation happening within her mind.
Trinity's mind was a whirlwind of confusion and fear. The surge of violence had felt alien, as if a dark entity had momentarily possessed her, acting on impulses she barely recognized. The experience terrified her, leaving her feeling fractured, as if a dangerous alter ego lurked within, waiting for another opportunity to seize control. The realization that her own emotions could betray her in such a violent way left her deeply shaken.
Becky pressed a needle into several points on Trinity's hand, injecting a local anesthetic with practiced efficiency before swiftly stitching the jagged wound. Her eyes flicked to Beta Carter, a brief, significant glance passing between them before she spoke silently into his mind, her eyes glowing faintly once more.
A small amount of your saliva… it can accelerate the healing, she suggested respectfully, hoping she wasn't overstepping.
Beta Carter offered a barely perceptible nod. He understood the implications. His saliva possessed potent healing properties, a well-known trait within the pack. Using it on family members amplified its effect. While it might raise questions later, he couldn't bear to see his daughter in pain if he had the means to alleviate it.
Silently, he moved behind a privacy curtain, a swift, unceremonious act of spitting into a small glass jar. The knowledge of wolf saliva's healing power was ingrained in their culture, a practical if somewhat unappealing remedy.
Returning, he positioned himself silently behind Trinity, a silent sentinel. He knew she didn't want him there, but his own need to be near her, to offer some unspoken protection, was overwhelming.
"I'll be back. Just grabbing some bandages and a cream to prevent infection," Becky said, her words directed at the tense trio, though Trinity remained unresponsive. Ryan offered a tight, strained smile in return, standing protectively close to Trinity.
When Becky returned, she had mixed the viscous saliva with an antiseptic cream, hoping the less offensive presentation would make it more palatable.
"Right as rain," Becky declared, finishing her work, a subtle flicker of pride in her eyes. She hoped Alana would note her efficient handling of the situation.
Ryan's gaze flickered to Becky as he noticed a momentary cloudiness in her eyes, a fleeting distraction before she abruptly turned and left the small room, leaving the three of them in an unnerving silence.
"I just wanted to say I am happy to see you. I want us to—" Boris couldn't contain himself any longer. The silence felt like a chasm widening between them. He needed to bridge it, to acknowledge her.
But Trinity couldn't bear to hear his words. A visceral rejection rose within her, a wall slamming down before he could even finish his sentence. She wasn't ready. Perhaps she would never be.
"Drop dead," the words escaped her lips with surprising ease, each syllable laced with a venomous hatred that felt both shocking and utterly honest.
Boris flinched as if struck. He tried to dismiss the harshness, clinging to the hope that she didn't truly mean it. She can't mean it.
"I am sorry," he offered, the words a fragile plea.
"Stop! Go anywhere away from me. I don't want to see your face. I want you to be as absent in my life as you always have been. Leave me alone." Each word was a ragged breath, a desperate plea. Her limbs trembled, but she forced the words out. "You are as good as dead to me. It doesn't matter that you're here. I haven't seen you my entire life." Her breath grew heavier with each syllable, her chest tight and constricted.
Boris watched his daughter's distress escalate, her chest heaving with painful breaths. Instinctively, he wanted to reach out, to hold her, to soothe her rising panic. But he knew his touch was the very thing that was causing her such anguish. He felt a helpless despair, torn between his desperate need to comfort her and the agonizing awareness that his presence was only making things worse. He couldn't leave, not yet.
Her vision swam, the edges blurring, but the inferno of her emotions refused to be extinguished. "You can't make it right. There's not enough time to gain my forgiveness. I don't want to give it. I'm not going to give it to you. I don't want—" Her words began to dissolve into choked sobs, a desperate litany directed as much at herself as at him, a promise she intended to keep.
Ryan's own anxiety spiked, a knot tightening in his chest. With each gasping breath Trinity took, it became terrifyingly clear that she was spiraling. Before he could react, she slumped, her eyes fluttering closed as she seemed to lose consciousness.
Her father was there first, his arms scooping her up with a speed that belied his size. He cradled her against his chest, holding her as if she were still a child, a primal protectiveness overriding everything else. He seized the opportunity, pulling her close, a desperate embrace.
"She doesn't mean it. Not really," Ryan felt compelled to say, though he wasn't sure if he was trying to convince Boris or himself. She was overwhelmed, forced to confront a lifetime of pain in a single, brutal moment. The anger, he sensed, was inextricably linked to her parents' choices, a wound so deep it tainted everything else. She couldn't separate their abandonment from all the subsequent hardships. Buried emotions were being dragged to the surface against her will, and she was crumbling under the weight of it all.
Beta Carter looked down at his unconscious daughter, a profound sadness etched on his face. Did she truly hate him this much? Would she ever call him dad? The crisis that had brought them together, the opportunity he had hoped would allow him to finally be a father, had instead revealed him to be the villain in her story. He felt the sharp sting of her rejection, the depth of her desire for him to simply disappear. Unshed tears glistened in his eyes. He had broken his own daughter.
He had recognized the signs – the ragged breathing, the clutching at her chest. A full-blown panic attack. But he hadn't intervened. He hadn't felt he had the right to silence her pain, no matter how much it broke his own heart. She had needed to speak, to unleash the years of buried resentment.
Too afraid of her reaction upon waking, of seeing his face, he gently transferred her into Ryan's arms.
An unexpected sense of trust settled within Ryan as he held Trinity. He couldn't explain it, but something about Beta Carter felt… decent. He wouldn't betray Trinity's feelings, but he felt a flicker of hope for some kind of understanding between them. He wanted to give Boris a chance, a glimpse into the depth of Trinity's pain.
"Do you know what happens to most of us? After they leave here?" he asked, his voice quiet but pointed, unsure of the extent of Boris's knowledge.
"What do you mean?" Boris's sharp gaze snapped to Ryan, a flicker of alarm in his eyes. What happened to his pup?
Ryan hesitated. It wasn't his story to tell. Instead, he offered a single word, a word he hoped would illuminate the darkness of Trinity's anger.
"Rogues."