Ashridge’s infirmary did not smell like she’d expected.
Lira had braced herself for damp stone and unwashed fur, for the thick, cloying scent of wolves who didn’t believe in regular baths or clean sheets. Thornfell’s fighters often wore their grime like armor.
Instead, when Corin pushed open the heavy wooden door and gestured her inside, she was hit with… warmth.
Smoke from a central hearth curled toward a high ceiling, carrying with it the cozy, slightly acrid scent of burning sage. Clean linen smells mingled with pine pitch, beeswax, and something sharper—antiseptic tinctures, she guessed. The space was long and narrow, with two rows of beds along either wall, windows open just enough to let in cold air without chilling the occupants.
It felt… lived in. Cared for.
Mara snorted softly at Lira’s expression. “What, you think we let our wolves rot in the mud?”
“I didn’t—” Lira started, then bit her tongue. Better to let it die.
Corin’s gaze swept the room, checking without seeming to. Three beds were occupied—one with a child whose leg was splinted, one with an older woman whose breathing rasped, one with a young man sleeping uneasily, a bandage around his head.
At the far end, separated by a thick curtain, came the muted murmur of voices and the clink of glass.
“Mara,” Corin said. “Your domain.”
She moved past him, all brisk efficiency. “Out,” she snapped at the apprentice who peered around the curtain—a lanky boy of about seventeen, with big hands and bigger eyes. “Go get some air before you faint from all the fearsweat in here.”
“I wasn’t—” he began.
“Out,” she repeated. “And tell your mother I said your last poultice looked like pond scum and smelled worse.”
He went red to the roots of his hair and bolted.
Mara sighed. “Pups.”
“Harsh,” Corin murmured.
“Alive,” she said. “Because I’m harsh.”
He didn’t argue.
Lira hovered near the door, clutching the strap of her bag. She was acutely aware of the eyes on her—the two conscious patients, a woman changing linens at a nearby bed, a man stoking the hearth. Their gazes slid to her collar, to the Thornfell crest on her mantle, to her too-quiet posture.
Whispers fluttered at the edges of hearing.
*Thornfell.* *Healer.* *No wolf scent. You smell that?* *Maybe the collar—* *No. Wrong. It’s… wrong.*
She took a steadying breath. The air here hummed with old magic, similar to Thornfell’s but tuned to a different key. Beneath it, a faint, sour tang of something… wrong.
Rogue ash.
“Lira,” Corin said, drawing her forward. “This is Ashridge’s infirmary. You’ll have access to whatever you need. Within reason,” he added. “We don’t have Thornfell’s stores.”
“I can make do,” she said quietly.
“I’ll have someone show you the herbs we keep,” Mara said. “They’re organized by use, not alphabetically, because I’m not insane.”
Lira’s lips twitched despite herself. “Alphabetical has its merits.”
“Alphabetical gets you killed when you’re reaching for feverfew and grab foxglove because some idiot named them both with F,” Mara retorted. “Trust me.”
“I’ll… trust you,” Lira said.
“Good. Dump your bag on that table.” Mara nodded toward a cleared wooden surface near the hearth. “We’ll go over what you brought later. Corin, if you’re done looming, leave. You’re making my patients nervous.”
“I wasn’t—” he began, then caught himself. “Fine. I’ll let you settle.”
His gaze rested on Lira once more, weighting her. “Remember why you’re here,” he said.
“I won’t forget,” she replied.
He held her eyes another moment, then turned and left, taking two of the wolves who’d accompanied them. The remaining one—a stocky woman with close-cropped hair and arms like tree trunks—leaned against the far wall, clearly there to ensure Thornfell’s healer didn’t do anything… unfortunate.
Lira pretended not to notice.
Mara yanked the curtain at the far end aside. “Idris!” she barked. “You still alive?”
A man’s muffled yelp answered her. “Don’t *shout*, we’re working with stitches and—”
He came into view, brown hair sticking up in tufts, a strip of linen tied around his forehead. His tunic was spattered with blood and something green. He stopped when he saw Lira.
“Ah,” he said. “Thornfell.”
“This is Lira Voss,” Mara said. “Our new problem.”
Lira blinked. “I—”
“Guest,” Mara amended. “Our new *guest*.”
Idris’s gaze flicked to the collar. “Suppression?”
“She’s stable,” Mara said before Lira could speak. “And Thornfell isn’t stupid enough to send us something that’ll explode.”
Lira swallowed a retort. She wasn’t a *thing*.
Idris nodded slowly. “Healer Idris,” he said. “Apprentice to Mara. For now.” He wiped his hands on a rag and extended one. “Welcome to Ashridge.”
She hesitated, then took it. His grip was firm, warm, steady.
“You smell like—” he began, then stopped abruptly, color creeping up his neck. “Herbs,” he finished weakly.
“Herbs,” she repeated, dry. “Yes. That’s it.”
His mouth twitched, but before he could reply, Mara clapped her hands. “Enough sniffing. We’ve got work. Lira, I’ll show you the rough layout, then you’re going to earn your keep. Idris, bring that ledger.”
He scrambled to obey.
For the next half-hour, Lira was swept into motion.
Mara moved through the infirmary like a storm, pointing out shelves groaning with jars—comfrey, yarrow, willow bark, valerian. “We keep the wolfsbane locked,” she said, tapping a heavy iron box. “Not because we don’t trust our wolves. Because we don’t trust their despair.”
Lira nodded, throat tight.
She met the child with the splinted leg—Tommi, who’d fallen out of a tree trying to impress a girl. She listened to the old woman’s breathing—likely a lingering infection, lungs full of fluid, would need careful watching. She checked the poultice on the head-wounded warrior—too wet, herbs starting to rot.
“How long has this been on?” she asked gently.
“Day,” the man muttered. “Idris put it.”
Mara shot her apprentice a look. “You were supposed to change it at dawn.”
“I—forgot,” Idris said, flushing. “We had three new—”
“Forgot,” Mara repeated. “You forget with bread in the oven, you get ashes. You forget with poultices, you get rot. Change it. Now.”
Idris scrambled to comply.
Lira reached out, unwrapping the bandage with deft fingers. The wound beneath was jagged, angry, but clean enough. She pressed two fingers lightly to the skin around it, closing her eyes.
A faint hum. Magic, bruised but not broken. No surge. No wrongness.
“You feel for it,” Mara observed, watching her. “The tear.”
“Yes,” Lira said softly.
“Good. You can help with the ones who come in… twisted.”
“Twisted?” Lira asked.
Mara’s jaw clenched. “Shifts gone wrong. Wolves caught half between. We’re seeing more of them. It started around the time—” She glanced at Lira’s collar. “Around the time your surge hit.”
Cold washed through Lira. “It spread.”
“Or there were multiple,” Mara said grimly. “Or the land’s just… tired of us. Who knows.” She shook herself. “We patch who we can. We burn who we can’t.”
Lira’s stomach lurched. “You burn them?”
“They’re dangerous,” Mara said flatly. “To themselves, to others. Better a clean death than a lifetime of tearing at your own skin.”
“I…” Lira swallowed hard. She had been spared that, at least. Her skin stayed where it was. “I understand.”
“Do you?” Mara searched her face. “You lost your wolf, girl. You didn’t tangle in the in-between. You didn’t feel bones grinding every time you breathe. You didn’t smell your own flesh burning because your magic can’t decide what shape you are.”
The words painted too-vivid pictures in Lira’s mind. “No,” she said quietly. “I didn’t.”
Mara’s gaze softened, barely. “Count yourself lucky.”
“I lost—” Lira began, then bit it off. This was not the time to argue relative suffering.
Mara seemed to read the unfinished words anyway. “You lost enough,” she allowed. “Or you wouldn’t be here.”
They moved on.
Eventually, Mara led her to the curtained-off section at the very back.
“He’s in there,” Mara said, voice dropping.
“Bram Kade,” Lira said, her own voice barely above a whisper.
Mara’s lips pressed together. “Don’t expect gratitude. Or politeness. Or much of anything except growling and glares. He hates being laid up.”
“I’ve handled difficult patients,” Lira said.
“Not like this one,” Mara muttered. “You’ll see.”
She pushed the curtain aside.
The space beyond was dimmer, lit by a single lamp and the faint glow from a small window near the ceiling. The air was thicker, heavy with the scents of blood, sweat, and something sharp—pain, maybe. Or pride.
The man on the bed was bigger than she’d expected.
Bram Kade sat propped against pillows, blankets pooled around his hips. He was shirtless, a wide bandage wrapped from mid-chest to lower ribs. Bruises bloomed across his torso in ugly shades of green and purple. His left shoulder was stitched in a ragged line. His hair—dark, thick, disheveled—fell into his eyes.
His *face*—
Lira’s breath caught.
She’d seen scars. She’d stitched them, salved them, watched them pucker and fade. This was… more. A jagged, fiery seam cut from his left temple, across his cheekbone, down past the corner of his mouth. The skin was still angry, shiny in places where it hadn’t yet knitted properly. It pulled his lip into a half-sneer, making his expression hard to read.
But his eyes—
Gods.
His eyes were gold-flecked amber, bright even in the dim light. They pinned her the moment she stepped in, sharp and assessing. Wolf eyes, even if his wolf felt distant.
Something in her chest twisted.
“Bram,” Mara said curtly. “This is Lira Voss. Thornfell’s healer. Try not to bite her.”
“I don’t bite healers,” he said, voice low and rough. “Usually.”
Lira’s pulse thudded. That wasn’t a threat. Not exactly. Not *not* one either.
She made herself step closer. Her boots scuffed the worn boards. His gaze slid to the collar at her throat, to the Thornfell crest, back to her face.
“Thornfell,” he said, the word flat.
“Yes,” she said. “Ashridge’s… new guest.”
He snorted. “Is that what they’re calling you?”
“Among other things,” she said, then flushed. Why had she said that?
One corner of his mouth twitched—the unscarred one. “At least you’re honest.”
“Look at you two, getting along already,” Mara said dryly. “Lira, this idiot took on half a pack of rogues by himself and decided to do it with his face. He’s alive because I’m better than he deserves.”
Bram’s gaze didn’t leave Lira’s. “Half my patrol died,” he said. “I don’t deserve anything.”
The naked grief in his tone hit her harder than the scar. It sat in the room like a third presence.
“I heard,” she said softly. “I’m… sorry.”
His jaw clenched. “Don’t be. You weren’t there.”
“Still,” she murmured. “Loss… spreads.”
His eyes flickered, briefly, at that. Like she’d said something he recognized.
Mara cleared her throat. “Lira, I want your eyes on his wound. See if you feel anything… off. He’s not healing as fast as he should, and it’s not just the depth of the injury.”
Lira nodded, setting her bag on a nearby stool. Her fingers trembled, but when she reached for the end of Bram’s bandage, they were steady.
“May I?” she asked.
His gaze dropped to her hands, then rose back to her face. “Do I get a choice?”
“Yes,” she said simply.
Surprise widened his eyes, just a fraction. “No one’s told me that in a while,” he muttered.
“You do,” she said. “Always.”
He studied her for another heartbeat, then gave a short nod. “Go ahead,” he said.
She unwound the bandage.
Beneath, his chest was a map of violence. Claw marks raked from his left shoulder down his ribs, deep gouges that had barely missed his lung. The flesh was puckered, edges still angry. The area around it was bruised, but there was no obvious sign of infection—no streaking red, no unusual heat.
“Does it hurt more than it should?” she asked, tone clinical.
“Hurts plenty,” he said. “Don’t know what ‘should’ is.”
“On a scale of one to ten?” she prompted.
“Ten,” he said without hesitation.
She blinked. “You realize that leaves you no room for—”
“Pain’s pain,” he said. “It doesn’t get better than this.”
Her lips pressed together. “You’re an impossible patient.”
“I’m an honest one,” he countered.
Mara snorted. “She’s right. He’s impossible.” She leaned against the wall, arms folded, watching them.
Lira placed her right hand lightly on the unbroken skin near the wound, just below his ribs. His muscles tensed under her palm.
“Relax if you can,” she murmured. “I’m not going to poke. Just listen.”
“To what?” he asked.
“Your body,” she said.
She closed her eyes.
The moment her skin touched his, something *flared*.
Not like the wild, ripping surge that had taken her wolf. Not like the low hum of old magic in the land. This was… sharper. Focused. A jolt that shot up her arm and lodged somewhere behind her breastbone.
She sucked in a breath.
Under her hand, Bram stilled.
Inside him, the magic of his body pulsed—slower than it should, sluggish in places, but not… twisted. Not rotten.
She had expected to feel the ragged edges of his wolf, the way she had with other injured shifters—a sense of coiled anger, of bruise and snarl.
Instead, when she reached for that presence, she found—
*Something reached back.*
It wasn’t a wolf.
It was the *absence* of one.
A hollow that mirrored her own so perfectly it made her breath hitch.
For a heartbeat—two—she felt herself falling into it. Her own emptiness answered by his. Two dark wells facing each other across a thin strip of flesh.
And in that shared void, something *stirred*.
Not a full wolf. Not the bright, eager presence she remembered from her youth. A fragment. A torn ear. A fading echo.
It turned toward her, cautious.
Her own lost wolf—gone, gone for three years—flickered in her memory. For an instant, she could *almost* feel it again.
Then the moment snapped.
She jerked her hand back.
Bram sucked in a deep breath, chest heaving. His eyes flew open, pupils blown wide, scent spiking with adrenaline.
Mara straightened. “What?” she barked. “What happened?”
“I—” Lira stumbled, bracing herself on the edge of the bed. The room tilted. “Sorry. I… overreached.”
Bram’s gaze was locked on her throat, on the collar. “What are you?” he whispered.
The words knifed through her.
“Your… healer,” she managed, swallowing hard. “Thornfell’s healer.”
“Don’t lie to me,” he snarled, voice low. “I felt—”
“Enough,” Mara snapped, the word a whip crack. Power rode it, making the hairs on Lira’s arms rise. “Both of you. Breathe.”
Lira dragged air into her lungs. Her heart hammered.
Inside her, the emptiness throbbed. But there, at the very edge of it, like a faint scent carried on the wind, she could feel—*something*.
A presence. Not hers. Not her wolf’s.
His.
Broken. Wounded. But very much *there*.
“He felt you,” Mara said quietly.
Lira licked her lips. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“Not with his hand, girl,” Mara said. “With his *wolf*.”
Bram made a low, strangled sound. “I haven’t… he’s been—” He broke off, jaw clenching.
“Distant,” Lira whispered.
He shot her a look. “What do you know about it?”
“Enough,” she said, voice trembling. “Too much.”
“She lost hers,” Mara said bluntly. “In a surge. Something in that land tore her wolf out by the roots and left her standing.”
His eyes widened. “You’re—”
“Broken,” Lira said flatly. “Yes. I’m… aware.”
He stared at her. His gaze dropped to her collar again, to the Thornfell crest. His nostrils flared.
“You smell wrong,” he said. “Like… herbs and lightning. Like a wolf that isn’t there.”
The words hurt more than she expected. She’d heard variations of them before. *Wrong. Off. Empty.*
“Accurate,” she said tightly.
“But my wolf…” He swallowed, gaze distant for a moment, as if listening inward. “He… moved. When you touched me. When you—” He broke off, tongue darting out to wet his lower lip. “He *recognized* something.”
Mara’s brows rose. “That’s new.”
“You said he’s been hiding,” Lira said, pushing past the shaking in her hands. “Retreated after the attack. Classic withdrawal. But he’s not gone.”
“No,” Bram muttered. “More’s the pity.”
She flinched. “Don’t say that.”
He snapped his gaze back to her. “You lose yours, and you still think we’re better with them?”
Her throat worked. “I didn’t lose mine by choice.”
“Neither did I,” he shot back. “But at least you get peace. Silence. No snarling in the back of your head every time someone looks at you like you failed them.”
“Silence isn’t peace,” she said, too quickly. “It’s… a different kind of noise.”
Mara cleared her throat. “As fascinating as this little trauma-off is, we have… other concerns.”
They both looked at her.
“Lira…” Mara’s eyes narrowed. “What did you *feel*?”
Lira swallowed. “His wounds aren’t infected,” she said, defaulting to the safe, clinical facts. “The bruising is extensive, but the flesh is knitting. Slower than ideal, but not abnormally so for this amount of trauma. As for his wolf…”
She hesitated.
“Out with it,” Mara snapped.
She glanced at Bram. His jaw was set, eyes hard. Fear rippled under his scent.
She could lie. Say she’d felt nothing. Say his wolf was simply bruised.
But he’d felt something too.
“He’s… wounded,” she said slowly. “Like a limb torn. But the root is there. Hiding. Afraid.”
“Afraid,” Bram repeated, disgust dripping from the word. “My wolf is *afraid*?”
“Of pain,” she said. “Of… failure. Of what happens if he comes back and you go into those woods again.”
He went still.
She hadn’t meant to say that last part. It had slipped out, something she’d *sensed* more than thought.
“How the hell do you know that?” he demanded.
“Because that’s what ripped mine out,” she whispered. “Fear. Pain. The land’s pain. It got tangled with my own, and my wolf… ran. Or was torn. Or both. I don’t know. I just know that if I’d had someone to tell me *she’s not gone, just hiding*, I might not have spent three years wanting to claw my own skin off.”
Silence fell thick and heavy.
Bram stared at her like she’d peeled off his skin instead.
Mara exhaled slowly. “Well,” she said. “This is uncomfortable.”
Lira laughed, a short, brittle sound. “Understatement.”
Bram’s gaze didn’t waver. “You’re saying my wolf is… there. Just… cowardly.”
“I’m saying he’s traumatized,” she said. “Like you.”
“I’m not—”
“You are,” she cut in, surprising herself. “You led a patrol that never came back. You walk into Darkness, you come out with half your people dead and your face carved open. You’re not… fine, Beta Kade.”
He flinched at the title. “Don’t call me that.”
“Why not?” she asked, genuinely curious.
“Because I don’t… feel like it,” he said, the words ground out. “Because every time someone says it, I hear names they’re not saying. Ren. Jessa. Tyne. Hollis. Mikel. Branwen. The ones who should still be here.”
Her chest ached. “I know that list,” she said softly. “Different names. Same weight.”
He searched her face. “How many?”
“Six,” she said. “In one night. The surge hit. The ground broke under our patrol. Twelve wolves went in. Five crawled out. None of their wolves came with them.”
His breath hitched. “They’re—”
“Empty,” she said. “Like me. Most couldn’t stand it. They left. Some just walked into the woods and didn’t come back.”
“And you stayed,” he said.
“I stayed,” she said.
“Why?”
Because where else would she go? Because running didn’t fill the hollow. Because Cael had looked at her and seen usefulness instead of just tragedy.
“Because I’m stubborn,” she said instead. “And because someone had to patch the ones who were left.”
He huffed a breath that might have been a laugh. “Mara likes you,” he said.
Mara made a noise. “Don’t start rumors.”
“You’re not shouting at her,” he pointed out.
“I’m… reserving judgment,” Mara said. “Besides, I shout at you enough for three people.”
“You love me,” he muttered.
“Like a rash,” she retorted. “Lira. Can you… talk to his wolf?”
Lira’s heart lurched. “I—no. I don’t. That’s not how—”
“You just did,” Mara said. “You reached for his magic and he reached back. I’ve been yelling into that void for days, and he won’t so much as twitch.”
“That’s because you’re loud,” Bram muttered.
Mara rolled her eyes. “He responds to *her*,” she said, ignoring him. “I want to know why.”
“Because she’s *wrong* like him,” a voice drawled from the doorway.
They all turned.
A man leaned against the curtain, arms crossed over a broad chest. He was the one from the clearing earlier—the ruddy beard, the scar along his jaw. His eyes were a deeper amber than Bram’s, but with less of the gold. Beta material, if Bram hadn’t already filled that slot.
“Garron,” Mara said, exasperated. “Don’t lurk.”
“Not lurking,” he said. “Guarding. Corin said keep an eye on our guest.”
Lira stiffened. “I don’t need a guard.”
“Everyone from Thornfell does,” he said pleasantly. “No offense.”
“She isn’t a prisoner,” Mara said sharply.
“Could’ve fooled me,” Garron said, gaze flicking to Lira’s collar. “Suppression, Mara? Really?”
“That’s Thornfell’s doing, not ours,” Mara snapped.
“And yet she walked *in* with it on,” Garron said. “Which tells me she’s either obedient or dangerous.”
“I think it tells you she can follow an Alpha’s orders,” Lira said, surprising herself.
His brows lifted. “Thornfell’s pup has teeth.”
“I’m not a pup,” she said quietly. “And I’m not yours.”
His smile sharpened. “We’ll see about that.”
Bram growled. Low. Surprising.
Both Garron and Lira looked at him.
“Don’t be an ass,” Bram said, voice rough. “She came here to help. Don’t run her off before Mara gets whatever she wants out of her.”
Garron’s brows shot up. “Defending a Thornfell witch now, are we?”
“Defending our *healer*,” Bram snapped. “Temporary or not.”
“Enough,” Mara said. “Both of you out.”
Garron snorted. “This is my infirmary too, old woman.”
She leveled a look at him that could have curdled milk. “Out. Or I tell your mother about the time you cried because you found a spider in your boot.”
His face went red. “You promised—”
“I promised to keep you alive,” she said. “Humiliation isn’t lethal. Out.”
Muttering, he stalked away.
Mara let the curtain fall back into place, shutting them in again.
“Apologies for the idiots,” she said to Lira. “We have many. I keep them because they’re good with teeth.”
“It’s… all right,” Lira said. Her heart was still pounding. She hated being called witch. Hated the way some wolves said it like a slur, all her empty magic and broken wolfness wrapped into one ugly word.
She turned back to Bram.
“I won’t… reach like that again without warning,” she said quietly.
He watched her. “Do it.”
She blinked. “What?”
“Reach,” he said. “Again.”
She shook her head. “I shouldn’t. It—wasn’t controlled.”
“It made him move,” he said. “More than anything else has. Do it.”
Her stomach twisted. “You don’t—know what you’re asking.”
“I’m asking you to prod my coward wolf until he either comes out or bites your hand,” he said. “Either way, we learn something.”
“Bram—” Mara began.
He cut her off with a look. “I need him back,” he said. “I can’t lead without him. I can’t go into those woods half a man. If she can… nudge him…” He turned back to Lira. “Please.”
The word landed between them like something rare.
She stared at him. At the scar that pulled his lip. At the haunted look in his eye. At the faint tremble in his fingers.
She thought of nights lying awake, reaching for her wolf and finding only echo. Of begging Edrin, begging Cael, begging the gods, anyone. *Give her back. Give me something. Anything.*
No one had answered.
Now this man—this scarred, stubborn beta—was asking *her* to be that something.
“I can’t bring him back,” she said. “I’m not… whole enough.”
“Whole enough to make him twitch,” he said. “That’s more than I’ve had. Take it.”
Her throat burned.
“All right,” she whispered.
She sat on the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle his wounds. The mattress dipped under her weight. Her knee brushed his thigh. Heat flared where they touched.
He noticed. She saw it in the way his breath hitched.
She pretended not to.
“Close your eyes,” she said quietly.
He hesitated, then obeyed.
She placed her hand on his chest again, closer to his heart this time. His skin was warm, scattered with dark hair. The steady thump under her palm was faster than before.
“Breathe,” she murmured. “Slow. In. Out.”
He did.
She reached.
This time, she went more gently. No plunging, no reckless dive. She skimmed the surface of his magic first—the hum of his body, the pulse of his blood, the faint crackle of healing tissue.
Then she brushed the edge of that hollow.
It yawned, wide and dark.
Her own emptiness answered.
For a moment, it was like pressing two wounds together. Pain flared—hers, his, the land’s. The memory of fire. The taste of ash. The sound of wolves screaming.
She almost flinched back.
*No,* she thought. *Stay.* She anchored herself to the feel of his heartbeat, the solid, stubborn rhythm.
“Come on,” she whispered, not aloud. “You’re not dead. I can feel you. Stop hiding.”
Something shifted.
Deeper. Further.
A low, guttural sound, more sensation than voice, rolled through the hollow.
Not words. Intention.
*Who.* *Mine.* *Hurts.* *No.*
Her breath caught.
“You’re safe,” she thought, focusing on the feeling more than any language. She let him feel her own brokenness. Her own emptiness. *See?* she thought. *I’m not here to hurt you. I’m… like you. Lost. But still here.*
The presence recoiled at first, startled. Then—it nudged back.
Curious.
Bram made a small sound in his throat.
“What is it?” Mara’s voice came from somewhere far away.
“Shh,” Lira murmured.
She thought of warmth. Of a hand on fur. Of the way her mother’s wolf had curled around her when she’d been too small to shift. Of safety.
She pushed that feeling through her palm.
The presence vibrated. Hesitated.
Then—
It *leaned* into it.
A jolt shot up her arm, through her chest. For a heartbeat, her own emptiness filled—not with her wolf, no. That absence was still a screaming void. But with a… brush. A phantom weight. Like a wolf pressing its head against her palm.
Bram’s wolf.
Her eyes flew open.
Bram’s did too.
They stared at each other.
His pupils were blown, swallowing the amber. His breathing was ragged. A low, unfamiliar sound—half-snarl, half-whine—vibrated in his chest.
Inside, she could still *feel* it. That faint, fragile connection. Not a bond. Not the roaring, all-consuming tie of fated mates the stories spoke of.
Something quieter. Stranger.
Recognition.
Her skin prickled.
She snatched her hand back like she’d been burned.
The connection snapped.
Pain lanced through her, sharp and immediate. She gasped, clutching her chest.
Bram sucked in a breath, hunching forward with a grunt. His hand flew to his sternum.
“Fuck,” he hissed.
Mara swore under her breath. “All right, that’s enough. I don’t need you two keeling over on me. Lira, you look like you swallowed glass. Sit down before you fall.”
“I’m—fine,” Lira managed, though her legs trembled. She sank onto the stool instead of the bed, grateful for the support.
Bram lay back, chest heaving. Sweat beaded on his brow.
“What… was that?” he panted.
“I don’t…” Lira shook her head. “I don’t know.”
“You felt him,” Bram said. “Don’t lie. You *felt* him.”
“Yes,” she whispered. “He… nudged me.”
“Like a fucking dog,” Bram muttered. “Figures.”
“Don’t insult him,” she snapped, sharper than intended.
He blinked at her.
“He’s in pain,” she said. “He’s scared. He’s… attached to you. Deep. You talk about him like he’s a burden he might decide you’re not worth carrying.”
The words surprised her even as they left her mouth. She’d never spoken to a patient like that. Certainly not one with the rank he carried.
His jaw worked. “Maybe I’m not.”
“Then get worth it,” she shot back. “Because he’s there, Bram. He chose to stay. When mine…” Her voice cracked. She swallowed. “When mine didn’t.”
Silence throbbed.
Mara watched them both, eyes narrowed. “You two are a mess,” she said finally. “But you might be the same *kind* of mess. Which makes you my best shot at getting him back on four paws.”
“I told you, I’m not—” Bram began.
“You’re not shifting now,” Mara cut in. “You will. Eventually. And when you do, I want more in control than your guilt.”
He flinched.
Lira pressed her shaking hands between her knees to hide the tremor.
Mara exhaled. “All right. Enough emotional surgery for one afternoon. Lira, you need to eat. Bram, you need to let me redress that wound before it decides to open up just to spite me.”
“I’m not—” he started.
“Don’t you dare say ‘fine,’” she snapped. “You are not fine. You are stitched together meat and stubbornness, and I will not have you tearing on my watch. Lie back. Shut up.”
He glared at her, but he did as she said.
Lira rose, legs still unsteady.
As she turned to leave, Bram spoke.
“Lira.”
She paused, looking back.
His gaze met hers, oddly vulnerable without the usual walls.
“Don’t stay away,” he said roughly.
Her heart stumbled. “I’m… here to work,” she said. “Not—”
“I know,” he said. “I just… if he moves when you touch him…” His throat worked. “Come back.”
The words dug deep.
“I will,” she said quietly. “Tomorrow.”
He nodded, once. “Tomorrow.”
She walked out, the curtain falling closed behind her.
In the main infirmary, the air felt thinner. Quieter. She realized she was sweating.
Idris appeared at her elbow with a cup of something steaming. “Drink,” he said. “You look like you were chewed up and spit out.”
“Anatomically accurate,” she muttered, taking the cup. The liquid smelled like chamomile and honey and something sharper.
“You poked the beta’s wolf,” he said. “Mara’s been trying for days. Whatever you did, it shook the walls.”
“It was… not intentional,” she said. “Not entirely.”
“Still counts,” he said. “We need him. Whatever’s in those woods…” He trailed off, shuddering.
“You’ve seen it,” she guessed.
He nodded. “Haven’t been on the worst of it. That was Bram’s patrol. But the ones that come back…” He swallowed. “Their eyes. Like there’s something else behind them, looking out.”
Lira’s skin crawled. “I’ve seen it,” she said. “Or… something like it.”
He studied her. “You’re really… wolf-less?”
She stiffened. “Yes.”
“No judgment,” he said quickly, holding up a hand. “Just—never met someone like you. You still feel like a healer.”
“I am a healer,” she said, sharper than she meant to.
His mouth quirked. “I meant… magic-wise. Present. Some rogues, their wolves go sideways and they… feel like a broken mirror. You don’t. You feel like…” He frowned, searching for the word. “Like a… bell without a clapper. All the shape, none of the sound.”
She stared at him.
“Sorry,” he said quickly. “That was rude.”
“It was… accurate,” she said softly.
He winced. “I put my foot in it a lot,” he admitted. “Mara says it’s a learning process.”
“She’s not wrong,” Lira murmured.
He grinned, brief and lopsided. “Come on. I’ll show you where we keep the good tea. Save you from Mara’s rust-water.”
She followed him, the cup warming her hands.
Behind her, through the thin walls and the thicker ache in her chest, she could *almost* feel it:
A faint, tentative nudge in the hollow where her wolf had been.
Not hers.
His.
She pressed a fist to her sternum.
“Tomorrow,” she whispered, to herself, to him, to whatever gods still listened. “I’ll come back.”
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