FOUR
“What aren’t you telling me?”
The question hangs between us.
The fire crackles softly. Somewhere beyond the cave entrance, the wind whispers through the silver-blue grass, carrying the scent of snow from the distant mountains. The male watches me from across the flames, completely unmoving. Not tense. Not uncomfortable. Just... watching.
Waiting.
The problem is that I know he’s not stupid.
Far from it.
Everything I’ve seen since arriving here points to the opposite. He’s intelligent. Observant. Deliberate. Which means he knows exactly what I’m asking.
The bastard simply chooses not to answer.
His gaze drifts briefly towards the mountains before returning to mine. “You should sleep.”
I blink, then laugh. Actually laugh. Because the sheer audacity of that response deserves recognition. “I ask what life-changing information you’re withholding, and your answer is that I should sleep?”
“You are tired.”
“I am.”
“You are injured.”
“Also true.”
“You are cold.”
“I was cold.” The correction slips out automatically.
Something shifts in his expression. Not a smile, not quite, but close enough that my pulse performs a small and deeply unnecessary somersault.
“Iris.”
The way he says my name should not be attractive. It’s a name. I’ve had it my entire life. Yet somehow, when it leaves his mouth, it settles beneath my skin and lingers there.
Dangerous. So very dangerous.
I point at him. “Deflecting.”
The almost-smile disappears, which is interesting. Apparently, I’ve found his weakness.
The Hendroy remains silent while I continue staring. So of course, he continues staring right back.
Several seconds pass before a familiar conclusion arrives: He’s not going to answer. Not tonight. Possibly not ever if he can help it.
I sigh dramatically. “Fine.” The word leaves me in a rush.
“Fine?”
“No. Not fine. Very much not fine. But I have enough experience dealing with stubborn men to recognise a losing battle when I see one.” His head tilts, and I point towards his chest. “Speaking of stubborn men.”
His gaze drops, then returns to mine.
The wounds crossing his torso remain obvious even in the firelight. Some have already begun closing, which continues to offend every medical principle I’ve ever learned, but several still look raw enough to make me wince.
“I want to examine those properly.”
The response is immediate. “They will heal.”
I close my eyes briefly. Of course. Of course that’s his answer.
When I open them again, he’s still watching me, still completely serious, and still somehow managing to look both terrifying and absurdly attractive at the same time.
Honestly, the combination feels unfair.
“They will heal,” I agree. “Eventually.”
His brow furrows. “They are healing now.”
“Wonderful. Gold star. You’re still bleeding.”
He looks down at the wound as though he’d somehow forgotten it existed, which, considering everything I’ve seen so far, isn’t impossible.
The shadows swirling lazily around him shift slightly. A moment later, he looks back at me. “I do not require treatment.”
I don’t respond immediately. Years of emergency medicine have taught me many things. One of the most useful is that silence can be a weapon.
The male waits.
I wait.
The fire crackles.
The wind stirs.
Eventually, his shoulders lower a fraction.
Victory.
Tiny.
But definitely victory.
“I will heal.” The words sound less certain this time.
“Mm-hm.”
His eyes narrow, and I simply look at him. The same way I’ve looked at interns trying to discharge patients too early. The same way I’ve looked at surgeons attempting to ignore obvious symptoms. The same way I’ve looked at every stubborn man who’s ever convinced himself he knows better.
To my absolute shock, the effect is immediate.
The Hendroy visibly softens. Not physically. Emotionally. The hard line of his jaw eases. The shadows around him settle. Something almost sheepish flickers through his expression before disappearing.
I stare.
He looks away first.
Well, that is fascinating. The terrifying shadow monster folds under disapproval. Who knew?
“Very well.”
The words emerge with all the enthusiasm of a man agreeing to his own execution. I bite the inside of my cheek, hard, because laughing feels unwise. Possibly dangerous. Definitely worth it.
“I’ll need supplies.”
His attention returns immediately. “What supplies?”
“Gauze.”
The blank look is almost endearing.
“Soft fabric. Clean. Used to cover wounds.”
Understanding dawns. “I have similar.”
Of course he does. Naturally.
The terrifying cave-dwelling shadow monster apparently keeps medical supplies. At this point, I’m honestly surprised he hasn’t produced a fully stocked emergency department from somewhere.
He rises immediately.
Not because I ordered him to.
Not because I demanded it.
Because I asked.
The distinction lands harder than it should.
The awareness follows me as I trail him deeper into the cave.
It’s organised, practical, and thoughtful. It’s a home. And somehow that realisation affects me more than watching him tear apart a monster twice his size.
Because monsters are easy. Monsters fit neatly into boxes.
Homes belong to people.
And the more time I spend with him, the harder it becomes to see the monster everyone else probably sees.
This male lives here.
The thought lands with surprising force as I take in the space around me.
Not because the cave itself feels familiar—it absolutely doesn’t—but because everything within it speaks of a life.
The shelves carved into the stone walls.
The carefully arranged tools. The bundles of dried plants hanging from overhead beams. Nothing resembles anything I recognise from Earth, yet I immediately understand the purpose behind it all.
Someone built this place. Someone organised it.
Someone comes here at the end of the day and calls it home.
My gaze drifts deeper into the cave before settling on a raised platform near the back wall.
A bed.
Not a human bed, obviously. The frame appears to have been carved directly from the mountain itself, layered with thick pelts and woven fabrics unlike anything I’ve ever encountered.
It’s large enough to accommodate his size comfortably, which means it’s enormous by any reasonable standard.
More importantly, it’s the only practical place to examine injuries.
The Hendroy follows my gaze and, without needing further instruction, moves towards it.
My mouth immediately goes dry.
Wonderful.
The remains of his shirt are hanging on by sheer determination at this point.
As he lowers himself onto the edge of the bed, the damaged fabric shifts and falls further open, exposing broad shoulders and dark skin marked by silver lines that shimmer faintly beneath the glow of the crystals embedded throughout the cave.
The sight steals my breath.
Not because he’s shirtless.
At least not entirely.
The problem is that seeing him like this strips away another layer of distance.
Every moment I spend with him makes it harder to view him as the terrifying creature from the forest and easier to see the male beneath it all.
The broad shoulders. The powerful chest. The faint signs of strain around his eyes from the battle.
The fact that despite looking capable of tearing apart reality itself, he sat by a fire and worried whether I was cold.
It’s deeply inconvenient.
I approach slowly, trying to ignore the increasingly ridiculous behaviour of my pulse.
The thread connecting us has been quietly humming beneath my ribs ever since we arrived in the valley, but every step closer seems to tighten it.
By the time I reach him, I’m acutely aware of his size.
Seated, he’s still taller than I am standing.
His shoulders seem to fill the space around him.
The bed dips slightly beneath his weight.
Meanwhile, my brain has apparently decided now is the perfect time to stop functioning.
Doctor, heal thyself.
Unfortunately, I appear to be fresh out of treatment options.
“Hold still.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “I am still.”
Fair.
The wound crossing his side is deeper than the others, but it’s awkwardly positioned. I lean closer, trying to get a better look, only to realise I can’t properly assess it from where I’m standing. The bed is too high. He’s too broad. And the injury is tucked beneath the line of his ribs.
He watches me struggle for several seconds before shifting slightly. One massive leg moves. The invitation is obvious.
Heat immediately floods my face. Absolutely not.
I stare at the offered space, then at the wound, then back at the offered space.
Medicine wins. Barely.
Muttering something under my breath that would probably get me written up in Brisbane, I climb onto the edge of the bed and settle carefully on top of one of his thighs so I can reach the injury properly.
The moment I do, I regret every decision that brought me here.
Not because he’s uncomfortable, but because he’s not. And because suddenly I’m very aware that his thigh is solid beneath me. Very aware of the heat radiating from his body. Very aware that if anyone from the hospital could see me right now, I’d probably be unemployed before the end of the week.
My brain helpfully supplies several additional observations.
I ignore all of them.
Professionally.
Mostly professionally.
Jesus. Maybe I hit my head harder than I thought.
I must have done, because the urge to lower myself down and press fully against his thigh is one I’m battling with.
If I could grind against him, just maybe I could give my clit the attention it so desperately needs. That way, I could perhaps concentrate.
The male remains completely still throughout my internal crisis. Only the faint darkening of his eyes suggests he’s aware of my predicament, which somehow makes everything worse.
Determined to focus, I reach for the wound.
The instant my fingers touch his skin, my breath catches. Again.
Every single time.