Chapter 1
ONE
Olivia
Late on the night of the full moon, Maiden’s Enclave
Mate. He’d called me his mate.
The word hung in the air, making my head spin and my pulse pound.
I stared down blankly at Lucien’s grip on my wrist, shock filtering through me, slowly at first, and then all at once, making me shake with the intensity.
My own wolf paced restlessly in my chest, the complete opposite of her usual easy quiescence—and yet, she wasn’t disagreeing with Lucien’s proclamation that we were his mate.
Before I could even begin to process, his eyes lost focus, falling closed as his grip on my wrist went slack, and Brielle swore, using words I didn’t think the polite doctor even knew.
“He’s fading. I’m not sure what’s wrong!”
Her panicked words spurred me out of shock and into motion, the ludicrous idea that Lucien and I were mates instantly shelved to deal with the medical crisis in front of us.
Brielle used her newfound strength to tear off his bloodstained shirt, not bothering with the medical scissors that were tidily packed into one of the drawers around the room. The problem became immediately evident.
A huge, gory wound in his abdomen, puckered red with infection, and ominous black streaks leaching from the edges out across his chest.
My eyesight sharpened with my wolf’s presence, the problem registering in my brain without any conscious effort from me. It was my turn to panic and blurt, “They dosed him with wolfsbane! If he loses his wolf, there’s no way he’ll be able to heal from this. We need the antidote.”
Brielle and I both spun away from the table, dragging open drawers and cabinets, ignoring the medical supplies scattering like chaff.
Wolfsbane poisoning was an emergency, even without the grievous injury.
Wolfsbane destroyed the wolf if left too long untreated, and suddenly, Lucien’s wolf making a last-ditch appearance to grab me made a lot more sense.
I nearly wept with relief when I pulled open the last cabinet on my side of the clinic, spotting the well-marked autoinjectors with the antidote.
“It’s here, I’ve got it. Get his pants off so I can get to his thigh!
” I shouted in my haste, spinning back toward Lucien’s side with sweaty hands and a racing heart.
I didn’t know if it was too late to reverse the damage, but as I bit the cap and yanked it off with my teeth, I didn’t waste a single second.
Brielle and Kane worked together to lower his tattered pants, lifting the hem of his black boxer briefs to bare his thick, muscled thighs for the needle.
I didn’t let myself consider the fact that if we were too late, I lost my mate. The needle sank painfully deep, but his leg didn’t twitch or jump beyond the force of the impact when I slammed the injector against his flesh.
His feverish flesh.
Brielle already had her hands on either side of the wound, eyes closed as she poured her omega powers into his still, lifeless body.
When the injector was empty, I cast around aimlessly for the cap, tears blurring my vision. A tanned hand appeared in my line of sight. Kane, holding out the red cap wordlessly.
I took it and covered the needle, then on autopilot dropped the whole thing into the wall-mounted sharps bin. Hesitating there by the wall, I braced my hand on the doorjamb, giving myself a single moment to breathe, reset.
I couldn’t heal anyone with tears in my eyes.
Frankly, I wasn’t that girl. The one who got all choked up over patients.
I cared about them, of course. I’d dedicated my life to healing; you’d be a pretty damn awful healer if you were completely detached.
But I had a certain clinical wall that allowed me to function in high-stress situations.
It didn’t come down until I was alone, back in my empty apartment, the crisis passed.
That was when I let myself cry, when there was no one around to see or judge me falling apart.
Not now, in the thick of things. It was unprofessional and ineffective.
Granted, finding your mate and the fact that he had been tortured, wolfsbane poisoned, and might lose his wolf and die all hitting you in a minute flat was a lot more to process than normal medical stress. This was an emotional moment, not just a clinical one.
I gripped the doorframe hard enough that my fingertips hurt, willed the tears away, and then spun back toward our two patients.
Brielle was still hunched over Lucien, pouring everything she had into him to try to fight back the infection and the wolfsbane. Which meant there was nothing else I could do for him that she couldn’t, not yet.
Cleaning, bandaging, poultices—those could all come after he stabilized. I turned toward Samuel, their other pack mate, and offered my best healer smile.
“Okay, then, let’s get you fixed up. What hurts?”
He tore his gaze away from Lucien to look at me incredulously. “Shouldn’t you be working on him? He’s out, and I’m at least upright. Nobody dosed me with wolfsbane, so I’m pretty sure I’ll heal up eventually.”
Typical alpha male, didn’t want to visit the healer, even if we could help his wolf along.
“I’m sure you will, but an exam will confirm that and tell me if I need to clean any wounds or if you need any herbal assistance. I see a few bloody spots on your shirt. Do you have wounds under there, or is that someone else’s blood?”
He glanced down, shrugged. “It’s mine.”
“That’s what I thought. Can you remove it, or do you need my help?” I arched one eyebrow, wondering how far he’d take the tough-alpha routine.
He snorted indignantly, but I had my answer as I watched him try not to wince as he pulled the shirt off, revealing a bloodied but heavily muscled torso.
My shoulders loosened a little as I examined the various gashes and punctures, some from claws, some from fangs. Regular shifter fighting injuries; no sign of wolfsbane, infection, or other taints. His breathing was clear and even, as were all his vitals.
“Okay, these look pretty straightforward, and as long as this doesn’t hurt.” I pressed over a suspicious-looking rib, and he hissed through his teeth. “Yep, broken rib. I don’t have to bind it, but you’ll need to stay in bed for at least forty-eight hours until your wolf can heal it.”
“I need to report to the high alpha as soon as we’re done here. A binding would be appreciated.”
I nodded, not at all surprised he wanted to jump back on his feet. Most wolves did.
“That’s fine, if that’s what you’d prefer. I’ll get these cleaned up first and then put the binding on, and you’ll be okay to move around. But try not to overdo it, or you’ll be coming back to see me.”
He nodded his agreement, and I went to work.
Gathering wound-cleaning supplies was second nature.
Wolves got into a lot of scrapes—literally and metaphorically—so eighty percent of my job was tending flesh wounds, so there were no complications while natural healing did its thing.
After I’d gathered what I’d need, including the wrap for his busted rib, I allowed myself to spare a glance for Lucien.
My mate.
The thought shook me to my core as I took in his pallid features, the big, jagged scar forming over his eyebrow and down his cheek. It was angry, scabbed, and puckering in places, but not fresh.
As a wolf, that meant someone who’d know what causes scarring for shifters had done it intentionally. They wanted to bring him low, tear him down. That one would be as much a mental wound as a physical one.
Wolves fought, yes. But we didn’t intentionally maim each other. It was another level of evil that would be a lot harder to heal from internally than externally.
If he survives to find out about it.
I forced myself to turn back to Samuel with a neutral stance, trying to keep my own thoughts and feelings tamped down, safely below the surface and off my face.
As I worked on cleaning the largest gash first, my mind wandered as my hands did the familiar task. Was I imagining the pull toward Lucien’s bed, or was that the first sign of the mate bond?
Had I been pulled toward him back in the castle because of the mate bond, but my own shyness and his disinterest had kept us from discovering it?
We would probably never know.
I blinked, realizing the wounds and blood were all cleaned, and stepped back to drop the used supplies into the trash.
“Okay, lean forward for me as much as you can without tweaking your ribs, and I’ll wrap them.”
Samuel sat himself up straight without complaint, though I was sure that rib hurt. I bound his ribs, putting some extra gauze for padding over the one I suspected was broken. There wasn’t much point x-raying a wolf unless his lungs had problems. Within two days, he’d be fully healed.
“You’re all set. Also, as your healer, I’d like to suggest you report to the high alpha from the bed.
He’s four feet away. Let him come to you.
” I gave him a pointed look while being careful not to make direct eye contact because of my much lower rank.
He had the good sense to look a little abashed at the scolding, so I decided to make it easier on him and called Kane over myself.
“Alpha? He’s ready to make his report, but I’d like him to stay in bed for a few days. Do you mind just talking to him here?”
“Of course.” Kane smiled at me, then walked over to Samuel’s bedside.
They spoke in hushed tones, so I stepped away to give them privacy. There wasn’t far to go without hitting Lucien’s bed.
Part of me wanted to cling to his hand, while the other part knew that it would be crossing a professional line in a big way.
His wolf declaring me his mate wasn’t the same as the man telling me he wanted to date or initiate physical contact beyond his basic care. I would keep it clinical until he woke up so we could talk; that seemed the safest and most ethical way to go about it.
When I stepped up to his bedside, though, the burn in my side from when he’d first grabbed my wrist flared again, and I rocked back on my heels. What the hell was that?
Brielle was still working on him, her eyes screwed shut, and I could see a tiny bit of improvement on the black lines trailing out from his wound, proof that the antidote was starting to work. Making a split-second decision, I excused myself to the small, attached bathroom off the clinic.
It was barely more than a toilet, sink, shower, and a single bare bulb overhead for lighting. But there was a filmy old mirror over the sink, which was all I really needed.
Reaching down to the bottom of my shirt, I lifted it, looking at my hazy reflection to see if there was anything obviously wrong. I could be clumsy sometimes when I was in the zone, so maybe I’d just run into the side of the table without realizing it.
But I didn’t see a scrape or a rash, nothing like a simple bruise from banging my hip against the metal treatment tables.
I saw my mate marks, covering the whole of my side in vibrant red lines. But while most mate marks I’d seen on pack runs were smooth, swirling graceful lines, these were not.
Big, bold, red splashes of color covered my right side, swirls and slashes disappearing up under the edge of my shirt, so I stripped it off to see the rest.
When I could finally see them all, they wound all the way up to cover the top of my shoulder too.
But somehow, looking at the vibrant red lines, I wasn’t filled with joy. There was only one word I could use to describe them, the emotion welling up deep within not my own. It was his.
Rage.