Chapter 173 The Fight
Ryder pov
"I should be there." She insists. "Those captives will be traumatized, terrified. My empathy gift could help calm them, make the extraction smoother."
"Or you could be here, fully rested, ready to start healing them the moment they arrive." I counter. "Let us bring them to you instead of draining yourself further trying to do everything."
She wants to argue—I feel it through the bond. But she's too tired to fight effectively, and part of her knows I'm right. The divine part that wants to save everyone is warring with the human part that recognizes her own limitations.
"Fine." She finally concedes. "I'll stay here for the raid. But if anything goes wrong"
"Then we handle it." I assure her. "We're not helpless without you, Jolie. The pack is strong, our fighters are trained, and we've got solid intelligence on the facility layout. We can do this."
"I know you can." She sighs. "I just hate feeling useless."
"You're not useless." I tilt her chin up so she meets my eyes. "You're essential. But essential doesn't mean you have to do everything yourself. Let us handle the rescue while you focus on what you do best—healing the survivors afterward."
That night, I hold her while she sleeps, feeling the toll constant healing work has taken through our bond. Her moonfire is weaker than it should be, her empathy gift strained from overuse. She's pushing herself to the breaking point and calling it necessary.And I can't protect her from it.
That's what kills me. I'm an Alpha, bred and trained to protect my pack, my mate. I can fight enemies, defend territory, lead warriors into battle. But I can't fight Jolie's compassion. Can't defend her against her own drive to save everyone who's suffering.All I can do is try to keep her from destroying herself in the process.
The next morning, I'm proven right when she collapses during a healing session with Daniel. Doc catches her before she hits the floor, checking her vitals while Daniel hovers anxiously nearby.
"She's exhausted." Doc confirms what I already knew. "Her moonfire is nearly depleted. She needs at least days of complete rest or she risks permanent damage to her divine abilities."
"I'm fine." Jolie tries to sit up, but Doc pushes her back down.
"You're anything but fine." He says bluntly. "Your body is in shutdown mode, trying to prevent you from burning out your gifts completely. You don't rest now, you might lose your healing abilities permanently."
That gets her attention. I see fear flash across her face—not for herself, but for all the wolves she won't be able to help if her moonfire fails.
"Two days." She bargains. "I'll rest for two days. But then I need to resume sessions. Marina is making breakthrough progress, and Daniel's neural pathways."
"Will still be there in forty-eight hours." Doc interrupts. "The healing can wait but your recovery can't."
We carry her back to our cabin, Doc administering some kind of supplement that's supposed to help divine energy regeneration. She fights sleep for almost an hour before finally giving in, her body demanding rest she can't deny anymore.
I sit beside the bed, watching her sleep, and make a decision.When the facility raids happen next week, I'm leading them myself. I'm pulling Luna, Cass, and Knox to form a strike team that can operate independently. We'll extract the captives, destroy the facilities, and bring the survivors back for Jolie to heal—when she's actually recovered enough to help them safely.
She's been carrying the weight of this entire resistance on her shoulders, trying to heal everyone while also leading raids and training empaths and coordinating networks. It's too much for any one person, even someone with divine abilities.
So I'll take some of that weight. Handle the things I'm good at—combat, strategy, protection—and let her focus on healing. Division of labor that doesn't require her to be everywhere, doing everything, saving everyone.
Later, when she wakes, I bring her tea and food. She looks better after the rest, her light more stable.
"I scared everyone." She says quietly. "Collapsing like that."
"You scared me." I admit. "Watching you push yourself past safe limits, knowing I can't stop you because it's who you are."
"I'll be more careful." She promises. "The thought of losing my healing abilities permanently—I can't risk that. Too many wolves depend on this gift."
"Too many wolves depend on you being alive and healthy." I correct. "Which means taking care of yourself has to be part of the healing work."
She nods, accepting the logic. "When do the facility raids start?"
"Next week." I keep my voice casual. "Luna's leading the extraction, Cass is handling Oregon, Knox is taking the California sites, so we have got it covered."
"And me?" She asks.
"You stay here and recover fully." I meet her eyes. "You rest, you regenerate your moonfire, and you prepare to heal twenty traumatized captives when we bring them back. That's your role in this operation."
I can see her wanting to argue, to insist she should be leading raids personally. But the memory of collapsing, of nearly losing her abilities permanently, holds her back.
"Okay." She finally agrees. "I'll stay here. Coordinate remotely. Be ready to heal when you return."
"Thank you." I kiss her gently. "For trusting us to handle this."
"I do trust you." She leans into me. "I just hate feeling helpless."
"You're not helpless." I remind her. "You're essential. Just in a different way than you're used to."
Over the next few days, I watch her slowly recover. She still does healing sessions, but limits herself to two per day instead of four or five. She takes breaks, eats regularly, lets her moonfire regenerate fully between uses.
It's hard for her. I feel the constant pull through the bond—wolves waiting for healing, people suffering, her divine nature demanding she help immediately. But she resists, choosing sustainable healing over immediate gratification.
The facility raids happen without her. We extract all twenty captives, destroy four facilities, and return with minimal injuries.