The Crawford estate was too quiet. A house that size should have had echoes—footsteps, voices, the clang of dishes in the kitchen, the rush of servants and staff—but Jonah had ordered silence. He couldn't bear the sound of anyone else's life when his daughter's sounded like it was slipping away.
He stood in the west hallway, outside her bedroom door, his hand flat against the wood. The warmth on the other side was faint but there. Vanessa's breathing—shallow, irregular—made the air vibrate against his palm. Jonah had been a man of numbers and deals, of contracts and signatures, but for three years he'd measured life in this: whether his daughter's chest rose, whether the fever broke, whether her wolf stirred or stilled.
Inside him, his own wolf prowled restlessly. She's fading. Do something.
"I'm trying," Jonah muttered under his breath. "Haven't I done enough?"
Not enough. Never enough. Fix it.
Jonah's jaw tightened. He would. He had to.
"Sir."
The voice pulled him from his thoughts. Dima stood at the end of the hallway, massive frame filling the space. Behind him, Dr. Hart approached with his ever-present tablet, and trailing him—uninvited, as always—came Elder Mireya, wrapped in her silver shawl.
Jonah's spine stiffened. "This isn't a council chamber," he said sharply. "It's my home."
"Your home is a pack's beating heart," Mireya replied evenly. "And when the heart weakens, the council has the right to examine it."
Jonah bared his teeth, and for a moment his wolf surged, wanting to snap, to drive her out. Old witch, always watching. Always waiting for us to fail.
"Careful," Jonah growled low. "I won't have her turned into a case study."
Dr. Hart lifted his hands. "Jonah, please. I only brought Mireya because—"
"Because you're out of options." Jonah's voice cut like steel. "Say it."
Hart's throat bobbed. "We've tried every medical treatment I know. The fever should have destroyed her organs by now, but it hasn't. She is… sustained. Suspended. Her wolf is active, but something blocks the bond between body and spirit."
Jonah turned back to the door, pressing harder against the wood. "So you're telling me she's dying and not dying. That she's trapped."
"Yes." Hart's voice cracked. "And I can't free her."
Silence stretched. Jonah's wolf growled inside him, claws dragging along his ribcage. Weak doctor. Worthless science. Tear him apart.
"No," Jonah whispered back, low enough the others couldn't hear. "Not yet."
Mireya stepped forward, her stormwater eyes catching the dim light. "It is not science that binds her. It is the bond itself."
Jonah laughed once, bitter. "You mean a fairy tale."
"You know better," she said softly. "You have seen wolves healed by touch. By bond. Vanessa is not ill by chance. She is ill because the one who should steady her has not."
Jonah turned, his wolf surging at the implication. "Her mate?" The word came out like a curse.
Mireya nodded. "Yes. Bond-sickness. Rare, but real. Her wolf recognized him at sixteen, before she even knew what it meant. Her body has been waiting for him since."
Jonah's hands curled into fists. "And where is this phantom mate while my daughter burns? Where was he when she collapsed in my arms, when she couldn't walk to her own bathroom? Where was he when she cried herself hoarse in the night?"
Mireya's gaze didn't waver. "Perhaps he does not know yet. Perhaps his own scars keep him from hearing the call."
Jonah's wolf snarled: Weak. Coward. Kill him.
Jonah's voice dropped to a hiss. "If I find him, and he refuses her—if he dares to reject what she is—I'll put him in the ground."
Mireya's eyes softened, but her words struck harder than any threat. "And if you do, you'll kill her too. A bond cut by violence is worse than no bond at all."
Jonah froze, breath sharp in his lungs. His wolf faltered, pacing but silent. The truth was a brand pressed against his chest: every choice was a trap.
Jonah's fists loosened and tightened again, veins standing out in his forearms. His wolf prowled, restless. She suffers while we argue. Move. Hunt. Find him.
Jonah turned to Dima. "I want every file. Every eligible wolf in this city, every pack, every rogue who's ever registered in Overland North. Age, lineage, health records. Run genetic compatibility checks against Vanessa's markers. Leave nothing out."
Dima inclined his head without hesitation. "Yes, sir."
Dr. Hart sputtered. "Jonah, this isn't… practical. You can't line up wolves like cattle for inspection. A bond doesn't work that way."
Jonah's glare cut him off. "Don't lecture me about what I can or cannot do. My daughter will not die waiting on fate to get its act together."
His wolf surged in agreement. Yes. Find him. Drag him if we must. Bite until he bends.
Mireya's shawl whispered as she stepped closer, her eyes sharp. "Be careful, Jonah Crawford. Bonds are not business deals you can negotiate. If you force this, if you try to twist the bond by power or wealth, you will destroy it—and her."
"I won't stand by while she wastes away," Jonah snapped, his wolf's growl lacing his voice. "If there's a wolf in this city with a heartbeat strong enough to steady hers, I'll put him in front of her until the bond ignites."
Mireya's gaze softened. "You can find him, yes. But you cannot make him choose. And you cannot make her choose either. She must want him. He must want her. That is how healing works—it goes both ways."
Jonah's jaw clenched, but inside, his wolf snarled and shook its head. Weak. Too many words. Just find him. Take him. Bite. Bind.
"Shut up," Jonah muttered under his breath.
Dr. Hart frowned. "Excuse me?"
"Nothing," Jonah snapped. He pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaustion pressing on him like lead. Three years of sleepless nights, of pacing hospital rooms, of taking conference calls beside her bed, pretending to investors that Crawford Holdings was stronger than ever when all he wanted was to crawl into her sickness and drag it out with his bare hands.
He exhaled sharply. "Get out," he ordered finally. "All of you. Leave me with her."
Mireya inclined her head, shawl shimmering as she turned. "Remember my words, Jonah. The bond is not yours to control. It belongs to them."
Dr. Hart lingered, wanting to protest, but one look from Jonah sent him scurrying. Dima remained, steady as stone, until Jonah gave him a nod. "Start the search. Tonight."
"Yes, sir."
Then Jonah was alone. Alone with the silence and the ticking of the clock. Alone with the scent of his daughter's fever seeping beneath the door. He pushed it open and stepped inside.
The room was dim, curtains drawn, the air heavy with the sterile tang of medicine layered over the faint, wild scent of wolf. Vanessa lay tangled in sheets damp with sweat, her dark hair plastered to her forehead, lips parted as she struggled for breath.
Jonah's chest cracked open at the sight. His wolf whimpered low. Cub. Our cub. Save her.
He moved to the bedside, sitting carefully on the edge. His large hand dwarfed hers as he took it, and he felt the faint pulse fluttering beneath her skin. Too fast. Too weak. But there. Always there.
Her eyelids fluttered. "Dad?"
"I'm here," he said softly, brushing damp hair from her face. "I'm always here."
She tried to smile, but it trembled. "You look tired."
Jonah's throat closed. "You sound worse."
"I'm fine," she whispered, though they both knew it was a lie. She'd said those words so often they were practically her catchphrase.
His wolf growled. She lies. She fades. We lose her.
Jonah bent his head, pressing his forehead to her hand. "Don't you dare," he whispered fiercely. "Don't you dare leave me."
Her breathing hitched, her wolf stirring beneath her skin. He felt it, a restless presence that reached, seeking something—or someone—it couldn't find. Vanessa shivered, murmuring in her fevered haze.
Jonah leaned closer. "What is it, Ness? What do you need?"
Her lips parted. A single name slipped out, soft as breath, but clear as glass.
"Ethan."
Jonah went still. His wolf froze, then roared with recognition. Him. The mate. Hunt him.
Jonah's heart pounded. He didn't know who Ethan was, didn't care if he was king or beggar, saint or monster. Whoever he was, he was the key. The cure.
Jonah pressed his daughter's hand to his chest, as if to anchor her there. "I'll find him," he swore. "I'll drag him here if I have to. He'll heal you—or he'll die trying."
His wolf howled agreement, shaking through his bones. Yes. Hunt. Find. Bite. Bind.
Jonah's eyes burned as he looked down at her pale, fevered face. She had fought for three years. Now it was his turn.
He would tear the world apart stone by stone until Ethan was found. And once he had him—Jonah would make sure the boy understood exactly what was at stake.
Because Jonah Crawford was not a man who begged. But for his daughter, he would make the world beg for mercy.