My grief kept me awake far longer than I could have managed otherwise. Alone, I didn't bother quieting my keening, wailing my despair into the night air. I wasn't sure how long the transformation would take, but I prayed the violent shift would generate enough heat and energy for me to survive.

The possibility of failure seeped into my mind, and I suddenly wondered if I should have simply fallen asleep rather than meeting my end in agony.

"Oh, Goddess," I thought woefully, "I should have taken the herb hours ago. Now it's probably too late."

This thought only made me cry harder, but a growing kernel of warmth pulsed in my belly, radiating strange sensations through my body. Suddenly, the forest exploded into a cacophony of sound—chirping crickets, croaking frogs, the low hoot of an owl, and other sounds I could scarcely recognize. I heard small animals scurrying below the snowpack, and the wind rustling through trees miles away. It was overwhelming, and I was amazed by the images that appeared in my mind, explaining each sound with impossible clarity. It was almost as though I could see sound—and I realized this must be how it is for wolves. The herb was working.

Then I heard something else: pounding footprints crunching through the snow. "No! No, no, no," I moaned desperately, my mind slowly piecing together the puzzle. Footsteps meant… it meant either Sinclair or the Prince had caught up with me. Either way, I was about to be found, meaning I hadn't needed to take the herb after all. I found the strength to push myself up on my hands and knees, sticking my fingers down my throat to induce vomiting, to undo the horrible act.

That's how Sinclair found me a few minutes later, sobbing and gagging, begging the Goddess to forgive my rash actions. "Ella!" he shouted, racing toward me. "Oh, thank the stars!" His voice pierced my skull at a terrifying volume, and I clamped my hands over my ears, crying out.

"Ella, it's okay, I'm here," Sinclair assured me, misunderstanding my pain. His voice was still too loud, but the pain in my heart was more excruciating than the pain in my head.

"No," I cried, my chest heaving. "No, you're too late."

Sinclair crashed to his knees in the snow beside me, clad in head-to-toe tactical gear that undoubtedly kept him warm during his alpine trek. His arms reached for me, but I jerked away, my adrenaline spiking again now that my baby's life was in unnecessary danger. I was crying so hard I couldn't catch my breath, but I still couldn't vomit. The surreal power swirling in my stomach only grew stronger, and I knew there was no reversing this. I jerked my head toward Sinclair, and he reeled back when he saw my wide, glowing eyes.

"I thought… I thought I was dying," I tried to explain, my words babbled and slurred. "I didn't think… I had a choice."

Understanding widened Sinclair's brilliant green eyes with alarm and pain. He swore under his breath, looking over his shoulder at his second-in-command. "We need an extraction right now. Call for a chopper." I heard the man pull out his phone, and the dial tone was as loud as a blaring foghorn.

I shook my head as Sinclair reached for me again, my words unintelligible in my anguish. "It's okay, baby. It's gonna be okay," Sinclair crooned, pulling me into his embrace despite my resistance. "Come on, let's get you warm." He unzipped his coat and pulled me against his overheated body before zipping it up again.

The man on the phone was speaking now, giving our location, and I was amazed to discover I could detect the pilot's voice just as easily. Sinclair's heartbeat pounded against my ear, and the sounds of his men's hearts and breaths filled my head. "Too loud," I whimpered. "It's too loud."

"I know, baby," Sinclair whispered, but it sounded like a yell. He chafed my body with his hands, generating heat through his thick jacket. "We don't have much time," he said, clearly talking to his men. "She's about to enter her first shift."

"Her first—" one of the men started to question, clearly unaware of my suppressed wolf.

Sinclair cut him off. "I'll explain later; we need to get out of the woods."

He stood, cradling me in his arms, and I sobbed into his neck. "Th-the p-pup," I moaned. "I-I've k-killed him."

"Shh, little one," Sinclair purred, but I could hear the grief in his voice. "Let's just get you someplace safe. Fuck, you're frozen solid." He took off at a run, and I suddenly understood how he'd reached me so fast. Even carrying me, he and his men were five times faster than a human, probably ten times faster than I would have been, stumbling and falling through the deep snow in my exhaustion.

The world started to go fuzzy, and I felt as though I'd swallowed a glowing ball of light. Other senses sharpened—my eyes were tightly shut and blurred with tears, but my nose was suddenly as overwhelmed as my ears.

Sinclair's familiar aroma was magnified a thousandfold, deepened and more complex than I'd ever experienced. It was so strong I almost felt intoxicated, but I could smell other things too—things I never imagined having scents, like the sweat of the men surrounding us, and my mate's fear for my well-being. Bad things too, like the decay of dead animals trapped in the ice, or the scat of a lynx in the distance.

It seemed as though I'd been moving through the world in a bubble my entire life, and now that protective barrier had popped. Everything came into severe focus, reminding me of birth, of a child existing in its dark, fluid-filled sac until abruptly introduced into the harsh world without warning. This was a rebirth for me, but the comparison sent my spiraling emotions even further out of control. The cost of my reincarnation was depriving my pup of his life; he would never experience life outside my womb.

My shivers worsened with my grief, and though Sinclair's scorching skin buffered my icy limbs, I couldn't get warm. We were out of the forest in an instant, and then a horrible, violent whump-whump-whump filled my ears. I screamed in response to the helicopter's noise, more painful than anything I'd yet experienced.

Sinclair tried to help by pressing one hand over mine. "Just hold on, Ella," he encouraged. "I've got you."

He leaped into the back of the aircraft, taking me to a far corner and strapping himself in. I tried to plug my ears again, but it wouldn't work. His men clambered into the chopper, and then we were leaving the ground, gaining altitude and rising into the heavens. The motion made me feel sick to my stomach, but my body seemed incapable of rejecting its contents, as if the herb had congealed my insides into an immovable rock to ensure the metamorphosis took hold.

"Let me see your hands, baby," Sinclair requested, dragging one of my palms from my ears to examine my fingers. He cursed again, and I realized it was because my extremities had turned blue with frostbite. He did the same with my feet, and I couldn't even care that I might lose my fingers and toes. I would gladly trade them for my baby. Sinclair tucked my frosty fingers under his arms and gripped my toes in his hands, trying to radiate his own warmth. "I'm sorry," he murmured quietly, his voice thick with emotion. I smelled salt, unlike my own tears or the others' sweat, and I realized they were Sinclair's tears. "I'm sorry it took me so long to reach you."

I'd been keeping my eyes tightly shut, terrified of adding more sensory stimulation to my already overloaded system, but I forced myself to look up at him. It was dark in the helicopter, a true blessing. I could see Sinclair as clearly as I normally would have in the light; his features were strained with guilt and sadness. I couldn't stand it; this wasn't his fault, and I knew he would torture himself for my rash decision. "I sh-should have waited… been stronger."

Sinclair's face crumpled with pain. He started to purr, then stopped, remembering my sensitivity to noise. He opened his mouth to respond, but before he could speak, something exploded inside me, and I screamed at the top of my lungs.

Sinclair gripped me tighter, ordering the pilots to hurry. "Faster! Her shift is beginning!"