“Eat. I won’t have my healers collapsing because they forgot they have bodies.”
I sit because arguing with Greta is pointless. She’s been feeding this compound for thirty years, and she treats hunger the way other people treat emergencies. Like it’s a priority.
The tea is strong and sweet. I drink half the mug before I register how much I needed it.
“How are things after yesterday?” Greta asks, settling into the chair across from me. Her white hair is braided over oneshoulder, her eyes sharp despite the softness in her voice. “Merric’s arm?”
“Stitched. He’ll heal.”
“Dane?”
“Concussion. Mild. I’m checking him again this morning.”
“Garrett?”
“Bruised ribs. Nothing broken. Nothing that would stop him from heading back to his packlands with Briar.”
She nods, buttering her own slice of bread with methodical precision. “And the other one?”
I don’t answer right away. I tear off a piece of bread and chew slowly, buying time I don’t need because the answer is simple.
“Sedated. Under full protocol.”
Greta’s knife pauses. “Brenna’s orders?”
“Brenna’s orders.”
She resumes spreading butter, but the faint tightness around her mouth says what she won’t. Greta doesn’t argue with alpha decisions. She doesn’t always agree with them, either.
None of us likes the idea of keeping a wolf in captivity.
“It’s for the best,” I say, wishing I truly believed it.
“That so?”
I meet her eyes. “Yes.”
She holds my gaze for a moment, then nods and pushes the plate closer. “Eat. You’ve got patients who need you.”
I finish the bread and cheese, drain the last of the tea, and carry my mug to the basin. Greta is already at the stove, moving the kettle, starting something else. Always in motion. Always feeding someone. I leave her to it and head for the healers’ wing.
The wing is quieter this morning. Most of the pack is still recovering from yesterday’s chaos: the celebration that turned into cleanup, the blood on the floorboards, the questions no one wants to ask out loud.
I check the supply shelves first. We’re low on calendula and arnica, and someone used the last of the willow bark without noting it in the log. I add it to the list and move on.
Dane is in the second room, sitting on the edge of his cot with his hands braced on his knees. He looks up when I knock, and his pupils track smoothly when I test them with the light.
“How’s the head?” I ask.
“Still attached.”
“Dizziness? Nausea?”
“No.”
“Blurred vision?”
“Sable, I’m fine. I don’t even know why you made me stay here last night.”
