Guron Grefo did not flinch at Jannah’s panic. He remained as still as a statue, his golden eyes reflecting the setting sun through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The silence of the luxurious suite felt heavy, pressing against Jannah’s lungs as she struggled to breathe through the shock of his revelation.

"Impossible?" Guron’s voice was a low, resonant vibration. "I don’t believe in that word, Jannah. Especially not from the girl who saved old Silas, the Enigma of the south docks. He had a heart disease that three of the federation’s top surgeons called terminal. They said his valves were calcified beyond repair, that he was a dead man walking. And yet, after two months of your ’simple roots and leaves,’ he’s back to hauling crates and drinking ale like a man half his age."

Jannah’s pulse spiked. She hadn’t realized the reach of the Grefo family’s intelligence network. Silas had been a secret, a man she’d treated in the shadows of a basement to avoid the authorities.

"That was different," she stammered, her hands clutching the worn strap of her satchel. "The heart is a pump. It responds to the chemistry of the blood. But an alpha’s virility? That is tied to his spirit, his dominance, his very ego. Dorrent... he loathes me. He loathes everything I represent. How am I supposed to heal a man who won’t even let me breathe the same air as him?"

Guron stepped closer, his presence expanding until he seemed to occupy the entire room. He placed a heavy, reassuring hand on her shoulder—a gesture that felt less like comfort and more like the closing of a trap.

"I believe in you, Jannah Nenth. " Guron said, his voice dropping into a persuasive, honeyed register. "You don’t have to hurry. I’m not asking for a miracle by sunrise. Take all the time you need. Stay in this house, use my resources, and find the cure. Even if it takes months, the offer stands. Your grandfather is safe. Your future is secure."

Jannah felt the tension slowly drain from her shoulders, replaced by a cold, calculating numbness. She looked at the marble floor, her mind racing. Guron thought he was motivating a desperate healer. He didn’t realize he was arming an assassin.

Whether Dorrent healed or stayed broken didn’t truly matter to her. If she succeeded, she would be the one who held his pride in her hands. If she failed, she would spend months feeding the monster "medicines" that would slowly erode his strength, ensuring he never rose again. She was here for blood, not for a medical breakthrough.

"Fine," Jannah whispered, her dark eyes flashing with a hidden, icy resolve. "I’ll stay. I’ll try."

"Excellent," Guron purred, withdrawing his hand. He checked a sleek, holographic watch on his wrist. "There is no better time to begin than now. It is Dorrent’s scheduled bathing hour. The servants have prepared a medicinal soak in his suite, and the tub is filled with mineral salts. I’ve heard many herbalists believe the skin is the most direct path to the blood. Go to him. See what you can find."

Jannah nodded slowly. She grabbed her satchel, the dried herbs inside rattling like the teeth of a skeleton. Without another word, she walked toward the connecting door that led to the corridor of Dorrent’s private sanctuary.

The hallway was silent, she reached the double doors of Dorrent’s room. They were heavy, carved from dark walnut, and to her surprise, they were slightly ajar. She didn’t knock. To knock was to ask for permission, and she knew Dorrent would never grant it.

She slipped inside, her worn boots making no sound on the thick, plush rugs. The bedroom was a cavern of dark blues and grays, dominated by a massive bed that looked more like a throne. But it was empty. From the far end of the room, through a set of frosted glass doors, she heard the soft, rhythmic splashing of water.

Jannah crept forward, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She pushed the glass door open just an inch. The bathroom was filled with steam, the air smelling of salt and damp stone. In the center of the room was a sunken bathtub, carved from a single block of emerald-green marble.

Dorrent was there.

He was submerged in the steaming water, his massive, muscular frame hidden beneath the surface. Only his head was visible, resting back against the marble lip of the tub. His eyes were closed, his sharp, handsome features softened by the heat, though his jaw remained clenched even in his supposed relaxation.

Jannah breathed as shallowly as possible. She reached into her bag, her fingers finding a small pouch of ground mandrake and stinging nettle. She intended to sprinkle it into the water near his legs.

She moved closer, her shadow falling across the water. She reached out, her hand hovering over the surface—

Suddenly, Dorrent’s eyes snapped open. They were the eyes of a predator who had sensed a fly in his web.

With the speed of a striking cobra, his hand shot out from the water, sending a spray of hot droplets flying. Jannah shrieked, trying to jerk her hand back, but her foot slipped on the wet marble floor. She stumbled, falling forward.

Dorrent’s large, powerful hand missed her wrist, but as he lunged to catch himself or push her away, his fingers tangled in the rough fabric of her skirt. The momentum of her fall combined with his violent, downward pull.

With a sickening rip and a sudden, cold rush of air, Dorrent’s hand yanked her skirt—and the thin, frayed elastic of her underwear—straight down to her ankles.

Jannah gasped, her hands flying up to cover her face in a reflexive, panicked movement as she collapsed on the edge of the tub. Her lower body was completely exposed, the cool air of the bathroom hitting her bare skin.

Dorrent froze, his hand still gripping the bundle of her clothes at the bottom of the tub’s edge. He didn’t look away. His gaze traveled downward, settling with a dark, unreadable intensity on her womanly junction. He stared at her, his eyes raking over the pale skin of her thighs and the dark, untamed patch of her unshaved hair.

"What are you doing in here, you filthy little spy?" Dorrent’s voice was a low, dangerous rumble, but his eyes remained fixed on her nakedness.

Jannah’s face burned with a humiliation so deep it felt like a physical wound. She scrambled, her hands reaching down to claw at her skirt, trying to pull the fabric back up over her hips. "Give it back! Let go! I was—I was only trying to add the herbs!"

But Dorrent didn’t let go. He tightened his grip on the cloth, keeping her pinned in her state of exposure. He leaned forward, the water cascading off his broad, wet shoulders, his face mere inches from her midsection. He looked at her unkempt, natural state with a sneer of pure, calculated disdain.

"Look at you," Dorrent spat, his voice dripping with venom. "Typical 3rd Street trash. You’re dirty, unkempt, and you smell of the gutter. You don’t even have the decency to groom yourself before entering an alpha’s presence."

He looked at her unshaved womanly junction as if it were a disease, his lip curling in disgust. "You think this is what I want? You think a man like me would ever be roused by something so... primitive? So foul?"

With a violent, dismissive yank, he threw her clothes back at her, the force of the movement sending Jannah sprawling backward. She hit the cold, hard marble floor with a dull thud, her hip barking in pain as she winced, tears of shame stinging her eyes.

Dorrent didn’t offer a hand. He didn’t even look at her again. He settled back into the water, his expression turning to one of bored, icy command.

"Get your filth out of my sight, Jannah," he growled, his voice echoing off the tile. "Leave. Now."