Chapter Thirty-Five: Carol's POV
That afternoon, I stood outside the laboratory building, staring at the glass doors as if they could give me some answer I desperately needed.
I pushed through the doors and took the elevator up to the fourth floor. I only saw Leah, alone. She was bent over a row of test tubes by the window, carefully and methodically transferring samples from one container to another.
She wore a standard practical white lab coat over jeans and a faded concert T-shirt.
She looked up when she heard my footsteps, surprise flashing across her face.
"Carol," she said, carefully setting down her pipette. "I didn't expect to see you again. Are you okay? You've missed several lab sessions, and I was worried."
"I'm fine." Even I didn't believe it when I said it.
I walked into the lab, the door closing softly behind me.
Everything was still as I'd left it—notes scattered across the desk, pens arranged in a neat row, the microscope angled just right.
Someone had covered my cell cultures, probably Leah, saving weeks of work. This small gesture warmed my heart.
Leah kept watching me, and after a while, she spoke in a lowered voice, quiet enough that only I could hear.
"Is it true?" she asked. "Did Maurice really turn you?"
The question was like cold water thrown in my face, so direct it stunned me for a moment.
I'd expected her to probe gently, or beat around the bush, not ask so bluntly.
My hand stopped mid-air, just about to reach for my notebook, and I turned to look at her, trying to figure out how much she knew.
"Why do you ask?" I stalled for time.
The best approach should be to deny it outright, laugh it off as a joke.
But the expression on her face made me hesitate. She wasn't asking out of malice.
"I don't know," I finally said, probably the most honest thing I'd said all day.
Leah was silent for a long time, just looking at me with those dark eyes, then pulled up a stool and sat down across from me.
Close enough that I could see the dark circles under her eyes, the traces of too many late nights and too little sleep.
"To be fair," she said softly, "I think Maurice did the right thing. Whatever you are now, you're alive. That's what matters."
She paused, then added, "I know you probably don't believe it, but he really cares about you. If he didn't think you were worth saving, he wouldn't have risked the conversion."
The words should have made me feel better, but they only made me feel hollow.
I thought of Maurice's hands on my body, his voice in my ear, the way he looked at me as if I were both precious and dangerous.
I thought of what we'd done when the transformation fever was at its worst, how my body responded to him even as my mind kept screaming it was wrong.
And beneath all that, I remembered how he apologized afterward, the regret in his eyes, as if he truly believed he'd done something unforgivable.
Before I could figure out how to respond, the lab door clicked open, the sound loud in the quiet room.
I looked up to see Hilda stride in, Paul following behind her.
Hilda's gaze swept over me as she walked to the lab bench, putting on her gloves. The latex snapped against her wrist with a light sound.
"Where is he?" I asked directly, in no mood for games. "Where is Professor St. Claire?"
"Professor St. Claire has taken sick leave," she said, enunciating each word.
"When he's recovered enough to return to work, he'll come back. In the meantime, I'm in charge of the lab, and all research continues as normal. I suggest you focus on your own work, Miss Valodin. Your experiment deadline won't be pushed back just because the professor is absent."
The refusal was crisp, with Hilda's usual kind of cruelty that showed she didn't care what others thought.
She just wanted me to shut up, sit down, and pretend nothing had happened.
She wanted me to be a good student who didn't ask uncomfortable questions—like why a vampire supposedly with strong healing abilities would need sick leave.
I didn't back down. I stepped right into Hilda's line of sight, where she couldn't pretend not to see me.
"He's not sick," I tried to keep my voice steady. "He's injured, badly injured. This is related to me, isn't it? Related to him saving me."
I knew Leah and Paul were looking over from the other side of the room, but I didn't care anymore about what was appropriate to say. "He saved my life, Hilda. You could at least tell me the truth, tell me how he really is."
She set down her pipette a bit too hard, the plastic tool clattering against the metal tray. Then she turned to face me directly.
"You want the truth, Miss Valodin?" She crossed her arms over her chest, the movement sharp and hard. "Fine. Professor St. Claire is recovering at home. He underwent an experimental procedure with less than a thirty percent success rate. He knew the risks when he saved you, but he did it anyway. But that doesn't mean you're special, and it doesn't mean you have the right to barge into my lab demanding answers."
She stepped back, creating distance between us.
When she spoke again, her voice had returned to its usual businesslike flatness. "Now, if you don't mind, we have work to do. I suggest you either start doing what you're supposed to do, or leave. Your choice."
With that, she turned away, no longer looking at me.
I stood there, a mess inside—anger, guilt, frustration all mixed together.
I knew asking more wouldn't get me anywhere.
I was about to turn back to my bench, thinking about what to do next, when a hand touched my elbow. It was Paul. His face showed no expression, but the touch was gentle.
He tilted his head toward the door, the meaning clear: follow me. Then he just walked out, not waiting for my response.
This was probably the most proactive thing he'd done since I'd worked with him—Paul usually preferred to hide in corners, letting Hilda and Maurice handle anything that required dealing with people.
The corridor was empty and quiet.
Paul walked a few steps from the lab door, stopped and faced me, hands in his jeans pockets.
"Maurice isn't on leave because of the wound on his arm," he said straight out.
"That wound was nothing serious, would heal in a day, maybe faster. He's on leave because of problems during your conversion. Your body reacted strongly to his blood, much stronger than you expected. Your half-werewolf blood didn't just reject it, it actively attacked the blood he gave you, trying to purge it."
He paused, checking if I understood, then continued: "When converting someone, there are risks. He has to inject enough of his own venom to complete the transformation, but not so much that he destroys himself. But you were different, normal rules didn't apply to you. Your body kept fighting back, and Maurice had to keep giving you blood to keep you alive. By the time your condition stabilized, he'd given too much, damaging something fundamental in himself. He can barely heal himself now, can't even stand for more than a few minutes. Hilda's worried that if he doesn't rest properly, the damage might be permanent."
Each sentence made me feel worse.