Derek wasn't getting better.
That was the problem.
By the time I got him back to the clinic, his breathing had stabilised, but the wound hadn't. It still smoked faintly, thin trails of purple-blue vapour curled into the air, spreading like veins up his arm.
Wolfsbane.
Not just any kind.
The right kind.
Which meant we were already running out of time.
"Stay conscious," I said, pushing the door open and half-dragging him inside. "You pass out, this gets worse."
Derek let out a low, strained breath that might've been a laugh. For a brief second, his eyes flashed steel blue.
"You always… this talkative?"
"Only when people are dying."
"Good to know."
I got him onto the exam table. He didn't fight it this time.
That alone said enough.
The clinic was quiet.
Too quiet.
For a second, I considered doing it myself.
Burning the wolfsbane. Applying it.
But I stopped.
This wasn't something I should guess through.
Not when I had a better option.
I pulled out my phone and called.
Alan Deaton picked up on the second ring.
"Scott."
Not surprised.
That was the first thing I noticed.
"I need your help."
A pause.
"With what?"
I looked at Derek, then back at the wound.
"…something that's not normal."
Another pause.
Longer this time.
"I'll be there."
The line went dead.
Derek watched me.
"You trust him?"
"I trust that he knows more than he says."
That earned a small, tired smirk.
"Yeah… that sounds about right."
Deaton arrived fast.
Too fast for someone who wasn't expecting this.
He walked in like he already knew what he was going to see—and then stopped when he saw Derek.
Not shocked. Not panicked. Just… confirming what he already suspected.
"I see," he said quietly.
I didn't waste time.
"He was shot."
Deaton stepped closer, examining the wound without touching it at first. His eyes tracked the faint vapor, the discoloration, the way the tissue wasn't healing.
"What kind?" he asked.
"Purple-stamped box," I said immediately. "Wooden casing. Sealed rounds."
Deaton's hand paused slightly.
"…Northern Blue Monkshood," he muttered.
I didn't react.
Didn't need to.
He glanced at me briefly.
"That's a very specific thing to notice."
"I pay attention."
A beat passed.
He didn't push it.
"It won't heal on its own," Deaton said, turning his focus back to Derek. "Not with this in his system."
"I figured."
Derek shifted slightly, jaw tightening. "Can we skip the lecture… and get to the part where I don't die?"
Deaton gave a small nod.
"We burn it."
I leaned back slightly. "That's it?"
"That's enough—if it's the same strain."
He moved toward the back without waiting, already pulling supplies.
The smell hit first.
Sharp.
Bitter.
Wrong.
Deaton burned the wolfsbane carefully, letting it char just enough before grinding it down. The room filled with the scent, thick and unpleasant.
"Hold him," he said.
I stepped in without hesitation.
Derek tensed immediately.
"Don't," he muttered.
"Yeah, that's not optional."
Deaton didn't warn him.
Didn't count down.
He applied it directly to the wound.
Derek screamed.
Not a shout.
Not a reaction.
A full, uncontrolled sound that tore through the room.
For a second, I almost pulled back.
I didn't.
If I let go now, he wouldn't make it.
His hand locked around my arm instantly, grip crushing, nails digging in hard enough to break skin.
I didn't move.
Didn't pull away.
The pain—
wasn't the problem.
It was the way it spread.
The way it didn't stay contained.
For a second, it felt like it wasn't just his anymore.
Like it was spilling over.
I tightened my grip slightly.
"Stay with it," I said, voice steady. "Don't fight it."
"Easy for you to say—" Derek choked out, breath breaking.
The smoke thickened, rising faster now as the burned wolfsbane reacted with what was already inside him.
Deaton stayed focused.
No wasted movement.
"It won't remove all of it," Deaton said. "Not in one go."
The dose was too small to remove all the poison.
"Again," he said, already preparing another application.
The second time was worse.
Derek's body arched, his grip tightening even more, and for a moment I thought something might actually break.
But then—
it shifted.
The smoke thinned, and the wound started closing.
Not fully.
Not clean.
But healing.
Silence followed.
Heavy.
Uneven breathing filling the room.
Derek's grip finally loosened, though his hand didn't fall away completely.
"…that," he said after a second, voice rough, "was worse than getting shot."
"Good," Deaton replied calmly. "That means it worked."
I stepped back slightly, checking the wound.
Still there.
But no longer spreading.
No longer smoking.
Healing.
Slowly.
Deaton cleaned his hands methodically.
"You brought him here instead of trying to handle it yourself," he said.
"Yeah."
"That was the right decision."
I didn't respond.
Because that wasn't what I was thinking about.
"You knew what it was," Deaton added, not looking at me.
Not a question.
I leaned slightly against the counter.
"I had a good guess."
"…interesting."
That was all he said.
But it wasn't nothing.
Derek shifted slightly, testing his arm.
"Still hurts," he muttered.
"It will," Deaton replied. "But you'll live."
Derek glanced at me.
"Guess I owe you."
"Don't make it a habit."
That got the faintest smirk out of him.
I looked between them.
Then toward the door.
Because even with the wound stabilizing—
nothing about this felt over.
Not even close.
Somewhere out there—
The Alpha was still moving.
The hunters were still hunting.
And now—
I knew exactly how dangerous both sides were.
I exhaled slowly.
This wasn't just survival anymore.
This was escalation.
And next time—
I needed to be ready before it started.
To be continued…