As soon as Bree had passed out in his arms, Dallas felt his breath hitch.
His inner wolf was protesting strongly at the rough treatment he had given his mate, hearing her cry out in pain. But Dallas didn’t have time for that sort of emotion. He had to figure out what was going on, and he had to do it quick.
He lifted Bree into his arms and lay her gently on the sofa that sat against one of the walls in his office, folding her arms over her stomach, hoping that that would be comfortable until he could get her back to her room.
He put the now-empty syringe back into its box, stashing it away in the desk drawer again, cursing the thought that he was going to have to go and ask for a replacement of the concoction inside. The palace physician wouldn’t ask questions, but that didn’t mean that it wouldn’t look incredibly suspicious.
He shoved his hands into his hair as he paced back and forth around his office, as though it were a cage.
