Everyone Thought the Alpha King’s Pup Was Sick—The New Maid Found 34 Needles in His Fur

The first needle came out of Finn Cross’s neck slick with black blood.

Abigail Foster froze, medical tweezers trembling between her fingers.

It was nearly two inches long. Silver. Barbed. Painted matte black to hide against his dark, matted pelt.

Finn whimpered in the warm bath beneath her hands. In his wolf form, the two-year-old heir to the Northern Territories was barely larger than a house cat. His wet black fur clung to a body so thin Abigail could count every rib.

Everyone at Obsidian Ridge said the Alpha King’s son was dying.

Doctors had treated him for nearly his entire life. Specialists had failed. His skin erupted in painful lesions. He scratched until he bled. Powerful sedatives were the only thing that kept him calm enough to stop him from tearing his own throat open.

But Abigail had noticed things no one talked about.

Finn looked terrified whenever certain caregivers entered his room.

His main nurse, Lady Vane, scrubbed her hands obsessively after touching him, as if he were diseased.

And his medicated bathwater smelled of sulfur and copper—harsh enough to sting Abigail’s throat the moment she walked into the nursery.

That night, with Alpha King Lawson Cross and his high council away at the Blood Moon Summit in the southern territory, Abigail had been ordered to give the pup his nightly dip.

Instead of using the prepared bucket left by Lady Vane, Abigail had dumped it down the drain.

She filled the tub with clean, warm water, lifted the trembling little wolf into her arms, and began gently washing his matted fur with plain chamomile soap.

Then Finn screamed—a high, ragged sound that tore through the quiet nursery.

Something sharp had punctured Abigail’s thumb.

She separated the wet fur behind his left ear.

That was when she found the first needle, buried deep into his flesh, held in place by a barb that caught against his tender muscles.

Now it lay beside the tub, dripping dark, foul-smelling blood onto the white porcelain.

Abigail stared at Finn, her stomach twisting into a cold knot.

She parted the wet fur on the other side of his neck.

Another black point gleamed beneath his inflamed skin.

And suddenly, Abigail understood one terrifying thing.

Whatever was happening to this child was not natural.

She reached for the tweezers again.

Finn didn’t bite her. He didn’t fight. He only trembled, pressing his wet head against her forearm, whimpering softly as she carefully gripped the second black point and began pulling.

It kept coming. Far longer than she expected.

And when it finally slid free, Abigail looked down at his soaked fur—and saw another dark glint along his spine.

And another near his ribs.

And three more along his fragile back legs.

Abigail’s breath hitched in her throat. Her heart hammered wildly against her ribs as she realized the true extent of the horror.

He wasn't sick. He was being murdered—slowly, methodically, piece by piece.

She pulled a towel close, drying his small form gently as she worked.

One by one, her tweezers gripped the hidden black steel.

Three. Four. Five.

With every needle removed, Finn’s breathing became less labored. The dark, sickly discharge oozing from his pores stopped as the pressurized metal was drawn out of his skin.

Six. Seven. Eight.

The needles were silver-alloy, forged with wolfsbane resin to suppress his natural healing factor and keep him in a state of perpetual agony that mimicked an incurable autoimmune disease.

Ten. Fifteen. Twenty.

Abigail worked for two hours in near darkness, lighting only a small candle on the sink. The pile of silver needles grew beside the tub, black blood pooling beneath them.

Twenty-eight. Thirty. Thirty-two.

By the time she reached his tail, her fingers were bruised and cramping. Finn was fast asleep in her lap, his small chest rising and falling in a slow, rhythmic pattern he hadn't achieved in months.

The final needle came out of his tiny front paw.

Thirty-four.

Thirty-four silver-barbed needles hidden inside a toddler’s body.

Abigail wrapped the sleeping pup in a thick, dry fleece blanket. For the first time since she had been hired as a low-ranking maid at Obsidian Ridge, Finn looked peaceful.

She gathered the thirty-four needles, wrapping them tightly in a silk handkerchief, and hid them inside her apron pocket.

Then the quiet nursery door creaked open.

Lady Vane stood in the doorway, holding a brass tray with a fresh bottle of dark sedatives.

"What are you doing, girl?" Vane hissed, her sharp eyes scanning the clean water in the tub. "Why haven't you used the medicinal bath?"

Abigail stood up slowly, holding the sleeping pup tightly against her chest.

"He was cold," Abigail said, her voice dropping into a flat, steady pitch. "I washed him."

Lady Vane’s eyes narrowed as she looked at Finn’s sleeping face. Her gaze darted to the empty bucket in the corner, then back to Abigail.

"Give him to me," Vane commanded, taking a swift step into the room. "It's time for his injection."

Abigail took a step back, locking her ankles.

"No," Abigail said softly. "I don't think he needs any more injections tonight."

Lady Vane’s expression darkened into pure, cold malice. "You insolent little stray. Do you know who I am? I am the Chief Healer appointed by the Alpha King himself!"

"Then you should have noticed," Abigail whispered, her hand sinking into her apron pocket, clutching the silk cloth containing thirty-four pieces of black steel. "You should have noticed why he was dying."