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Thinking it’s the samples ofBoundless—the newly launched anal beads I ordered—I head to the door.

Instead of the expected samples, I’m handed a flat white envelope addressed to me with Dante’s familiar chicken scratch.

“Okay, boy,” I murmur to Saint, “Let’s see what we’ve got here.”

I move to the hallway table and open it. There’s a folded note paper-clipped to a wrinkled medical report from Seaway Memorial.

My heart stops. I’ve never seen it before, but I know it’s the same one I crumpled and tossed into the bin nine months ago.

My phone lights up, Sophie’s name flashing on it. I let the call go to voicemail as I unfold the note:

Two things about breakingnegativenews: timing and tact. Too bad, I suck at both. Love you, Sorellina. DV.

Mystomach plummets, freefalling into a hollow ache. I stare at the words, but they refuse to make sense at first—medical jargon swimming before my eyes, until one line stops me cold:

RESULTS: Negative–No genetic mutations associated with Lynch Syndrome were found.

I read it again.

And again.

“Oh my God.” The words feel too small, too inadequate for the magnitude of this moment.

I’m not sick. I’ve never been sick.

Shock hits first, then relief—so profound it makes my knees weak. Joy bubbles up, wild and uncontrollable, only to be slammed back by anger so sharp it steals my breath. Confusion follows, spinning my world off its axis.

How the hell did this happen?

My phone lights up again. Sophie. This time, I answer.

“Hey, how did the negotiation go?” Sophie begins, but I cut her off.

“Soph, get Addy on the line.”

“Luna? What’s wrong?”

“Conference call. Now.”

Less than a minute later, Addy’s slightly breathless Irish lilt comes on without preamble. “I have four alphas growling at each other in my study, about twenty armed guards roaming around my house, two of whom are in a stare-off with my boys, who, by the way, should be in bed, but otherwise, what’s up?”

Normally this would be gist fodder, but I can’t engage beyond the words spilling out of my mouth. “Guys, I’m not sick. I don’t have LS.”

I hear both women catch their breaths as the silence stretches, then breaks with them talking over each other:

“What do you mean?” “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. Dante sent me the test results he’d been hanging on to since that day.” I sink back into my chair, staring at the paper that just rewrote my reality.

“I’m going to kill him,” Addy’s voice hardens.

“Hey, Nico looked at those results too,” Sophie says slowly. “He knew.”

An ache blooms in my chest. Both of them kept it from me.

“Do you think Cade knew, too?” Addy asks.

“No.” On this, I’m certain. “He didn’t know. Or care either way.”