Sinclair roared as he stumbled through the hospital doors, his bleeding mate clutched in his arms.

Everyone in the emergency room froze—doctors, nurses, patients. The noise he emitted was a relentless demand, a plea, a threat. He was halfway between states—his eyes burning with wolfish fury, his hands ending in razor-sharp claws.

Ella breathed against his chest, faintly. Blood dripped from her. The bond between them was barely perceptible. And his child…

He took a breath, glared around the room, and shouted, "Doctor! Get me a doctor! Now!"

The room jumped. Patients scrambled away from the desk, nurses leaped to their feet. A doctor—one Sinclair didn't recognize—strode forward. "Come," he commanded, gesturing toward the treatment rooms. "This way, fast."

Sinclair strode after him as the doctor barked orders. In his arms, Ella was deathly pale, unconscious, barely breathing. He glanced down at her beautiful face, her rose-gold hair falling across it.

She was strong, he knew, but she had given so much. He gritted his teeth, growling, livid with the universe for its cruelty. He would not lose her.

A swarm of doctors gathered as they moved down the hall, the first doctor leading and issuing commands. They worked quickly and efficiently, bringing forth machines and tools as they approached a bed.

"How many months?" the doctor asked, examining Ella's face as Sinclair gently laid her down.

"Three," Sinclair replied. He could have given the exact number of days, but it seemed irrelevant.

"Halfway," the doctor murmured, then looked up. "Too soon for an early cesarean. The child… it would not survive."

"This child will survive," Sinclair growled, grabbing the doctor's coat and pulling his face close. "And she as well. You will do everything—you will move mountains, if I command it—"

The doctor, to his credit, did not flinch.

"Sir!" he barked back, his eyes flashing. He grabbed Sinclair's wrist.

Sinclair blinked, surprised, and released him. The doctor stepped back, brushing off his coat, his eyes unwavering. "I will move mountains for her, sir," he said, his voice low. "I will do everything I can to help her survive. We owe you that. But your temper won't help. Is that clear?"

Sinclair's lips curled back in a snarl as he closed the distance. "You dare take that tone with me?" he asked, his voice a low warning. "I am your King—"

The doctor stepped closer, their chests almost touching. "You may be our King, sir, but I am the alpha in this surgery. And if you want me to save her life, you must back down."

Sinclair felt a growl rise in his throat, but he turned to look at Ella—so small, so fragile, in the bed. His pride was not worth her sacrifice. He glared at the doctor, then stepped away. "Do your work," he snarled, folding his arms and moving to the head of her bed. The doctor held his gaze for a moment, then began working.

The room was swarming again with people, beeping machines, IVs, and oxygen tanks. They worked quickly. Almost instantly, Ella had a mask to aid her breathing, wires and tubes in her arms. The nurses cut away her clothing, leaving her naked, revealing the blood coating her thighs. Sinclair almost flinched, but he refused to look away. If she could endure it, he could watch. He stared, following their every move.

The medical professionals murmured in a language he couldn't understand. It was difficult to remain still, helpless. He had basic medical experience, but he knew her life was in their hands, not his. The realization was agonizing. As he watched, a nurse brought an ultrasound machine. They applied jelly to Ella's stomach and turned to the screen, murmuring as they assessed the baby's condition.

He couldn't see a heartbeat. His stomach dropped. He moaned.

"We need to take her in," the doctor commanded, removing his bloody gloves. "Her uterus is torn, leaking blood at the cervix, and her organs are failing—she needs immediate surgery—"

"The child," Sinclair growled. "Is it alive?"

The doctor hesitated, then quickly nodded. "There's a heartbeat," he said, his voice apologetic. "It's not good, sir. If it were anyone else, I'd… I'd instruct my team to let the child go, to concentrate on saving the mother."

Sinclair took two steps forward. "You will save them both," he demanded, his voice steel.

The doctor didn't flinch. "I will fight for her," he responded. "I will fight for both of them, as my Queen and my Prince. Trust me, sir." He bowed his head briefly, then met Sinclair's eyes. "I will do everything."

Sinclair clenched his jaw, fighting the urge to threaten the doctor. His breath shook as he forced himself to exhale.

He nodded once—all he could manage before the doctor returned the gesture and began giving more commands. They wheeled Ella's bed toward a door at the far end of the room, taking her away.

Sinclair strode after her, refusing to be separated.

"Sir!" a nurse demanded, placing a hand on his arm. He snarled, unleashing his fury. She shrieked and covered her head. He continued to follow his mate.

"Sir, please!" the nurse cried, her voice shaking. "You can't go into surgery—it's not safe!"

He ignored her, storming through the doors Ella had just passed through. Two more nurses protested, but the doctor interrupted.

"Let him in," he said, his attention fixed on Ella. "He won't be parted from her. It's not worth the lost time trying to keep him out."

The nurses hesitated, then yielded, returning to Ella's bedside. Sinclair moved to the head of the bed, accepting the surgical gown and gloves offered.

"You will stay out of our way," the doctor said, briefly meeting his eye. "You can stay as long as you don't interfere. I won't lose her to your impatience."

Sinclair nodded, agreeing to his terms.

The doctor began his work, issuing commands. He raised a shining scalpel and began to cut.