The Rogue King's Surrogate novel Chapter 74

Chapter 74

Chapter 74

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Emery kept a slow pace along the second–floor corridor, one hand trailing the wooden wainscoting. Now that she knew every heartbeat under this roof belonged to a werewolf, the mansion felt altered–larger, alive, almost breathing.

The layout matched Logan’s quick sketch from last night. The east wing held dorm–style rooms for the single omegas who took daytime security shifts. Beyond that, a long glass walkway joined a newer annex–clinic, weight room, and armory stacked one floor above the other. A covered path outside led to greenhouses and a fenced training yard.

No silver crests, no family banners. Logan had said this was not a pack house. He was not an Alpha in the formal sense. He called the place a refuge–a private rescue for rogues who could not survive pack law. Rogues, she had learned, were wolves cast out or orphaned, unclaimed by any territory. Some turned feral if left alone too long. Others were simply scared and hungry when Logan’s scouts found them.

He paid them salaries, tracked their schooling if they wanted classes, and signed employment references if they left. No oaths, no blood vows, only a running joke that the exit gate swung both directions. Many still called him Alpha out of gratitude, but none were bound to stay.

The concept felt foreign, almost utopian–strange, because part of her still braced for the hidden catch.

She counted door numbers–twenty–three, twenty–five–then stopped at a pale–blue panel with a brass nameplate: Lucille Moreau. A faint citrus scent drifted from under the frame. Emery knocked.

“Come in,” Lucille called.

The office held tall windows, two filing cabinets, and a neat desk buried in folders. Lucille closed one file and set it aside. “Morning, Emery.” Her eyes tracked the bruises along Emery’s knuckles, then lifted. “Tea? Water?”

“Water is good.”

Lucille crossed to a compact fridge, retrieved a chilled bottle, and handed it over. “What brings you here?”

“Am I disturbing you?”

Lucille shook her head. “Invoices can wait.”

Emery twisted the cap, took a sip, then squared her shoulders. “Logan covered the basics but not the details. I need those details.”

Lucille’s brow rose. “You want a crash course in werewolves?”

“My son will be one,” Emery said. “Knowing matters more than guessing.”

Lucille dropped into her chair. “Fair point. I just wasn’t expecting you to ask so soon.”

“There is no upside to denial,” Emery replied. She pulled a visitor chair forward and sat. “Start anywhere— packs, rogues, whatever you think a first–time mother should know.”

Lucille clicked her pen once, considering. “All right. Quick structure first. Traditional packs run on trios:

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Alpha, Beta, Omega. Alphas lead, Betas enforce, Omegas handle healing, mediation, and younger pups. Rank is inherited or earned by challenge. Most packs occupy land recognized by the Council. They pay taxes, police

their own.”

“And rogues?”

“A rogue can be born outside a pack, exiled, or survive a massacre. No territory, no allies. A lone wolf loses stability over time. Instinct pushes them toward any strong Alpha who can claim or kill them.” Lucille folded her hands. “Logan created this estate so choice could exist between those options.”

Emery nodded slowly. “Why do the Council and the packs allow that?”

“He pays Council fees, keeps the rogues documented, and never shelters criminals. In return they pretend his model is an eccentric charity, not a threat.”

Emery traced the condensation ring on her bottle. “So my child–half human–how will packs treat him?”

“Lineage matters less than power. If the baby shifts early and strong, some Alphas will want him; others will fear him. Logan will shield him until he chooses his own path.” Lucille’s tone stayed even, factual. “Mixed pups can thrive. Dr. Morrow studies that. However… it is very rare for a mother to… you know.”

“I understand.” So they can thrive if their mother is strong enough to give birth. A flicker of relief warmed Emery’s chest. “Any downsides?”

“Well, this is just history since I have never personally met a halfbreed. Early shifts can hurt rib cartilage. Sensory overload is common. You may need sound–dampening rooms.” Lucille offered a small smile. “I remember that the wolves in the past, built one for a seven–year–old who couldn’t sleep during storms.”

Emery pictured a toddler with wolf ears flinching at thunder. “Worth planning.”

Lucille leaned back. “There is something else. Pups imprint on scent in the first hours. The primary bond is usually the mother and the pack Alpha. If Logan is away when you deliver, we will need a secondary pair to stand in.”

Emery tapped the chair arm. “Logan will be there.” She said it as fact, surprised by her certainty.

Lucille accepted that without comment. “Anything specific you still wonder?”

Emery hesitated. “Yes,” she said at length. “What does freedom look like for a werewolf? You said they can leave anytime, but can they stay human in public?”

Lucille spread her hands. “A shift is voluntary except under lethal moon stress or extreme emotion. Most rogues you pass in town are in human form, holding jobs, paying rent. They text, complain about trattic, binge shows on a weekend. When danger calls, they run here.” She paused. “You will see both sides. Your son will decide which feels more like home.”

Emery absorbed that. The idea of a childhood balanced between normal suburbs and a fortress estate felt daunting, but her anxiety cased beneath a deeper focus–preparation, not fear. “Thank you, Lucille.”

Lucille closed the top file. “Anytime. We protect our own.” She lifted a second bottle from the fridge and set it beside Emery’s half–empty one. “Hydrate, heal, and ask before assumptions harden.”

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Emery offered a small, genuine smile. “Deal.” She stood, twisting the new cap. “One more question.”

“Shoot,” Lucille said.

“How do you budget a place this size and still afford drone nests?”

Lucille’s grin widened. “I’ll show you the spreadsheets after dinner. Bring strong coffee.”

Emery chuckled–a light sound even to her ears. “I will.”

A sharp knock cut through the the conversation. It was followed by the door swinging wide. A young guard- barely more than nineteen–stepped in, breathing hard. “Miss Moreau, two fighters just came back from patrol. Both wounded. Rogues ambushed them near the ridge.”

Lucille stood. “Bring them to the infirmary. Alert Dr. Morrow and Prep One.”

The guard nodded and disappeared down the hall.

Lucille turned to Emery. “Are you squeamish about blood?”

“No.”

“Good. Come with me. It helps to see what a rogue encounter looks like.”

They left the office and crossed the corridor to a service elevator. Lucille keyed in a code. The car hummed down three levels, stopping at a reinforced door marked MEDICAL. A retinal scanner flashed green, and the door slid aside.

Cold, filtered air brushed Emery’s face as she entered. The corridor ahead was bright with overhead LEDs. White walls met polished concrete floors lined with supply cabinets. Stainless carts held IV bags, gauze packs, and sealed syringes. Doors on either side bore simple labels–Diagnostics, Trauma One, Isolation.

Lucille guided her into Trauma One. Inside, two medical beds waited. Dr. Morrow was already there, gloving up, a nurse prepping sutures.

The guards arrived moments later with the injured. The first was a compact Beta named Raul. Claw marks raked diagonally across his torso; shredded fabric clung to drying blood. He breathed steadily but winced with each movement. The second was a taller wolf–Jenna, an omega scout–her forearm sliced open, bone visible under torn muscle.

“Silver?” Dr. Morrow asked.

Raul shook his head. “Just deep.”

“On the bed,” the doctor ordered.

Emery stepped aside to let them pass. She watched the efficiency–nurse stabilizing Jenna’s arm, Dr. Morrow examining Raul’s ribs for fractures. Lucille moved to a wall console, pulling up vitals on a touchscreen.

“Pressure seventy over forty,” the nurse called.

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“Bolus two units of saline,” Dr. Morrow responded. He sprayed coagulant foam into Raul’s wounds.

Emery inhaled, steady. Blood covered gauze, but there was less than she expected. The doctor’s hands were sure, the nurse quick, yet even with supernatural healing, pain etched the fighters‘ faces.

Lucille glanced over. “First lesson: rogues fight dirty. Our patrols still bleed.”

Emery nodded, eyes on the injuries. “How long to heal?”

“Hours for Jenna,” Lucille said. “Days for Raul. Deeper muscle tears slow regeneration.”

Dr. Morrow sealed Jenna’s arm with bio–adhesive. “She will shift tonight. Full closure by morning.”

Raul gritted his teeth as the doctor injected a numbing agent near each shred of flesh. Emery saw the muscle twitch under the needle.

“Pain scale?” Dr. Morrow asked.

“Six,” Raul said through clenched teeth.

“Hold there,” the doctor instructed. He began suturing with speed that blurred.

However, suddenly, a second gurney burst through the doorway, guided by two guards. The wolf on it—a broad–shouldered male Emery did not recognize–shook in short, violent tremors. Blood darkened his shirt and pooled along the stretcher rails.

Dr. Morrow’s head jerked up. “Isolation bay, now.”

“We found him deeper in the trees,” one guard said. “Something on the claws–smells off.”

Lucille stepped forward, gripping the edge to help steer. Her fingers slid through a smear of blood.

A rasp left the wounded wolf’s throat. His eyes rolled white.

“Stop,” the doctor barked. “No contact without shield gloves. That blood is laced.”

Lucille froze. “Laced with what?”

“Wolfsbane extract,” he said, pulling a sealed kit from a wall box. “Highly toxic on skin, lethal in the bloodstream.”

Lucille glanced at her hand where the crimson streak already tinged purple at the edges. She swore under her breath, then strode to a sink, scrubbing with antiseptic foam until the skin reddened.

The nurse and guards rushed the gurney into a glass–walled room. Air vents hissed as negative pressure sealed with a click. Dr. Morrow keyed a code and entered, wearing a filtered mask and double gloves.

Emery remained outside the glass, heartbeat loud in her ears. She could see the doctor inject a clear antidote into the wolf’s jugular line. Purple veins spidered up the patient’s neck, then slowed, their color fading by half.

Lucille joined Emery, drying her hands on a sterile towel. “Stings, but I got it in time.”

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Emery kept her gaze on the isolation bay. “Will he live?”

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“Depends on how much got past muscle,” Lucille answered. She flexed her raw palm, winced. “Wolfsbane burns like frostbite.”

Inside, the doctor suctioned more tainted blood, replaced it with saline, then hooked the patient to monitors. The heart rhythm steadied–still erratic but hitting a stronger beat every few seconds.

Dr. Morrow exited through the far door to the decontamination shower. His muffled voice came over the intercom. “No one enters without full protection. Toxin mist lingers.”

Lucille exhaled. “Rogues do not carry wolfsbane unless someone supplies it. Someone planned this.”

A chill slid down Emery’s spine. “Could the toxin affect me?”

Lucille shook her head. “Not at that dilution, and humans tolerate wolfsbane far better. Still, keep your distance.”

They watched the monitors a moment longer. The erratic beeps grew steadier.

Lucille turned away first. “I need to file an alert to every perimeter team. We double–suit from now on.” She tucked the towel into a disposal chute and strode for the exit.

Emery lingered, eyes on the wolf fighting for breath behind glass. The wound at his side still oozed dark streaks, but the purple lines retreated millimeter by millimeter.

She pressed her hand against the cool pane, then pulled it back. Resolve hardened in her chest. Training, knives, or claws–none of it meant anything if the enemy used poison in the dark.

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