The hours crawled by for Dominic Sinclair as he sat beside his mate in the post-surgical suite, willing her to live. Her hand was clasped tightly in his, his eyes fixed on her face, watching her eyelashes flutter every minute or two. Her chest rose and fell slowly, shallow breaths coming less frequently than they should. She had survived the night, but just barely.

Sinclair wiped his face, fighting to stay awake. The surgery had lasted for hours, and he had stood stoically at her side throughout. It had been agony—watching them cut her, listening to their incomprehensible murmurs as they worked to repair her like a broken machine.

As if she weren't the most important thing in the world. As if she weren't the daughter of the Goddess, the future Queen, the mother of his child, and—most important of all—his f***ing mate.

It had taken every ounce of his strength to remain there, to resist the urge to wrench the instruments from the doctor's hands, to do something, anything, to fix her through sheer will.

Finally, after hours of work, the doctor nodded, wiping a bloody hand across his forehead. "We've done everything we can," he murmured, looking down at Ella. "It's in her hands now."

Then, they wheeled her into this room, hooked her up to countless machines, and left. Left Sinclair there, holding her hand, waiting to see if she lived or died. But dammit, he wouldn't let her die. No f***ing way.

Nurses periodically checked on Ella and him, assuring him there had been no deterioration, offering food and water. He ignored them, focusing only on her—his Luna, the light of his world.

A few hours later, a knock came at the door. Sinclair glanced toward it, expecting another nurse, and blinked in surprise to see Cora and Roger standing there.

"Dominic," Roger said, his face etched with sorrow, his eyes avoiding Ella and focusing instead on Sinclair. He started to speak, but Cora interrupted.

"Is she alright?" Cora breathed, hurrying to her sister's side, glancing between Ella and her mate.

"No," Sinclair murmured, unable to lie. "She survived the surgery…but the doctor says it's touch and go. It's not…"

Sinclair covered his face with his hand, unable to finish.

"The child?" Cora asked, desperately. "The baby?"

Sinclair nodded, unable to speak. He could no longer feel his son, the bond was severed; but he hoped Ella could still feel him. He hoped they were holding on to each other in their unconsciousness. He hoped… God dammit, he didn't know what he hoped for.

Cora focused on Ella, running her hand over her sister's forehead, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "Come on, kid," she murmured. "You have to fight, Ella."

Sinclair remained silent, letting Cora have this moment with her sister, but lowered his hand when he felt Roger grip his shoulder. He looked up at his brother, shaking his head. Roger said nothing, gazing at Ella's fragile form.

A long moment passed before Roger looked at the television, which had been playing softly in the corner for hours.

"You have the television on?" Roger asked, frowning.

"The nurses turned it on," Sinclair replied, shrugging. "I asked them to turn it off, but…" He gestured vaguely. "They said something about unconscious patients… the sound of human voices is better. Makes them feel grounded, apparently."

Roger frowned, confused, but Sinclair shook his head. "Whatever. It can't hurt."

Roger nodded, then looked back at the television. "Have you seen any of this?"

Sinclair blinked, then looked at the screen. The news was on. He glared at his brother. "No, Roger, I'm not watching the news while Ella slips away. I'm concentrating on her, obviously."

"Would you just look, Dominic?" Roger retorted, frustrated. "I wouldn't distract you if it weren't important."

Sinclair growled, irritated, but did as his brother asked. To his surprise, the screen showed Cora. He focused on the words scrolling across the screen and the image of Cora glowing with a bright white light, her hands raised above her head.

As he watched, Cora's body seemed to brighten. Her mouth fell open in a gasp; her eyes closed as a brilliant flare of light erupted from her, blinding the screen as her brilliance overwhelmed the camera. The image was grainy, likely from a security camera. But when the light faded, Cora stood panting, looking out into the square. Sinclair squinted, leaning closer, and saw himself—in the corner of the screen, with Ella in his arms, running toward the hospital.

"I was there," Sinclair murmured, leaning back. "I don't need to see it again."

"Yes," Roger replied, pocketing his hands, his eyes still on the screen. "But do you know what she did?"

Sinclair shook his head, slumping back, one hand on his forehead, the other still clasped around Ella's. What Cora did didn't really matter. Ella had tried to do it first, and it might have killed her. He didn't give a f*** what it was.

"Dominic," Roger growled, frustrated. Sinclair snapped his eyes to him, lips curling into a snarl. Roger raised a hand, signaling for calm. "I know you're focused on Ella, brother, but you're our King now, or will be soon. And you need to know what's happening in your nation."

"Fine," Sinclair ground out, not taking his eyes from his mate. "Tell me, and be done with it."

"In that flash—Cora gave the Goddess's gift. To everyone. Didn't you feel it?"

"No," Sinclair grumbled, uninterested. But if he thought back… he had been distracted, frantic with Ella's weakness. But he had felt… something. Some kind of… hope?

"Well, I did," Roger continued. "And so did everyone else. She spoke to us, Dominic. The Goddess did. Through Ella, through Cora. She made clear her equal love for humans and wolves, rejecting superiority. And in the name of her love," Roger pleaded, "we must stop fighting. Work together, find peace."

Sinclair said nothing, staring at Ella.

"Don't you get it, Dom?" Roger insisted. "They ended the war. It's over. A real ceasefire. Humans and wolves have stopped attacking. Talks are needed, negotiations, but—"

Sinclair snapped his head up. "It's over?" he asked, shocked. "For real?"

Roger nodded emphatically. "For real, Dominic. It's done. You're going to be crowned King in a new era of peace."

Sinclair leaned back, eyes still on Ella. He let out a long breath. Then his eyes drifted to Cora.

"Thank you," he breathed. He meant it, even if he couldn't fully express it. "We are… in your debt."

Cora shrugged. "She did it," she said, glancing at her sister. "She did all the work, paid the price. She… handed it to me, and I took the final step. Ella is the true peacemaker."

Cora shook her head, taking Ella's other hand. "I just hope she can fight as hard for herself as she did for everyone else," she murmured. "She needs to wake up so we can thank her, not me."

Sinclair growled in agreement and stared at his mate. God dammit. Why wouldn't she wake up?