Third Person’s POV

Lance let Tommy drive the modified jeep and stayed by Marsh’s side.

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Even as Marsh slipped into unconsciousness, his neck glands pale from blood loss, Lance gently cradled his hand with his warm palm. His white musk pheromones seeped into Marsh’s cold skin like warm water.

In a soothing tone, he described the rejuvenating Southern Border plains and the amusing antics of his pups learning to hunt. The calming elements in his voice, like moon grass sap, softened the tension.

When he mentioned Marsh’s mate was on her way, a faint tenderness laced his white musk. “She’ll be here soon. You’ll embrace under the full moon.”

At these words, Marsh’s chaotic pheromones steadied, his labored breathing syncing with Lance’s voice.

Occasionally, he’d struggle to open his eyes, the white film over his wolf pupils thinning slightly, a flicker of hope–a desire for reunion–lighting his gaze.

This injured werewolf warrior, relying purely on the indomitable resilience deep within his wolf spirit, clung stubbornly to his last breath.

It was the warrior’s obsession with life and reunion that, like a candle flickering in the wind, burned obstinately under Lance’s pheromone reassurance.

As they neared Frostbite Town–sixty to seventy miles remained–the group was forced to halt.

breaths grew shallow and irregular, his vital signs

Lance with resignation. “I’ve done all I can.

Team stood together,

emaciated, scarred

to Klein,

vitals, if we don’t reach Frostbite Town within

gaze. “I know. Even if we reach the medical station and Digby arrives, if he has no

is risky. His body

Silence fell.

Southern Border, scarred by war, was riddled with potholes. Driving here was nerve–wracking, with

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was perilous. Speeding up would be even

vehicle overturned, Marsh

with this

vehicle, cushioned by soft pads. Marsh can rest atop them. Those below

forward, volunteering, “Let me lie at

at the crowd–some injured, others exhausted–and pulled

can do

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