“Can’t be too careful.”
“I think you can,” he grumbles. Dane isn’t big on conversation.
I make him follow my finger anyway, checking his coordination. His reflexes are good. The swelling at the base of his skull has gone down overnight.
“You’re cleared,” I tell him. “But take it easy for the next few days. No shifting, no sparring, no throwing yourself at walls.”
“Wasn’t planning on it.” He rubs the back of his neck, wincing slightly. “How’s 3-0-6-7-0?”
My jaw sets. “Don’t. That’s not his name.”
“It’s all we’ve got for now.”
“Doesn’t mean we should use it,” I mutter. “He’s not a number, Dane. He’s a man. He had a life once. Like you or me.”
“Sure,” he says, unapologetic. “How is he?”
“Sedated. Stable.”
He watches me for a moment. “Keeping him under that deep—” He shakes his head. “That’s not healing. That’s just suspension.”
“It’s what’s best right now.” My lips purse.
“Merric says you told Brenna you cut back the meds.”
I nod, not bothering to deny it.
He walks to the door, pauses on the threshold. “For what it’s worth, I think you were right to try. He wasn’t trying to kill us, you know. He was just trying to get free.”
He leaves before I can respond, and I stand there with the light pen in my hand and the wordsuspensionsitting heavy in my chest because he’s right. I know he’s right.
I clean the basin, restock the shelf in the examination room, and carry my kit down the hall.
Tomas is in the room next to Dara’s. They were recovered from the same facility, the one where they’d been holding Garrett. He walked out on his own, but three weeks later, his body is still flushing whatever they were pumping into him. His wolf’s healing has stalled. He cycles through fevers and chills, his appetite is nonexistent, and some mornings his breathing goes shallow enough to worry me. He’s lying on his side with his back to the door, and when I knock, he doesn’t turn.
“Hey, Tomas. Just checking in,” I say, aiming for bright and breezy.
“I’m fine.” His voice is flat. Not hostile. Just empty.
I don’t push. Some days, the best I can do is confirm he’s still breathing and leave him the dignity of not being watched while he stares at the wall.
I move on to Dara.
She’s sitting cross-legged on her cot with a bowl of porridge balanced on one knee and a spoon in her hand. Two weeks ago, after we got her out of that place, she couldn’t eat with anyone in the room. She’d wait until I left, then scrape whatever I’d brought her into her mouth with her fingers, crouched in the corner with her back to the wall. It took four days before she’d use a spoon. Six before she’d eat sitting on the cot instead of the floor.
Now she looks up when I come in, spoon midway to her mouth. The flinch is gone. Not the watchfulness—that may never leave—but the flinch. The automatic recoil from a door opening. That’s gone.
“Morning,” I say.
“Morning.” She puts the spoon back in the bowl and swallows what she’s chewing. Her fingers aren’t white-knuckled on the blanket anymore. They rest in her lap, loose. Almost relaxed.
I set my kit on the table and pull up a stool. “I need to check your ribs. Okay?”
She nods and moves so I can reach her side. The bruising has faded completely, and the swelling is almost gone. She breathes evenly when I press along her ribcage. No sharp intake. No pulling away.
“Healing well,” I tell her. “You can start moving around more. Stretch. Walk the grounds if you feel up to it.”
“I went to the door yesterday,” she says. “Stood in it for a while.”
