Elin’s POV

The hospital corridor blazed with lights, yet chilled like an ice cavern. Yanis lay in bed, face pale as paper, ventilator hissing rhythmic like death’s whisper. Three days comatose—concussion and internal injuries, docs said no short-term wake. But holding his hand, I swore he heard: “Cousin, hold on. Elin’s here—waiting for you to open your eyes. We’ll go back to Blue Moon Pack together, rebuild it all.”

He didn’t stir. Bodyguards stood sentinel outside, ...