My hand opening.
I hold onto it as long as I can.
The drug takes the rest.
Chapter 8
Sable
The bruises show by midday. Four dark prints on the inside of my wrist where his fingers held, and a lighter shadow where his thumb pressed into the hollow over my pulse. I roll my sleeve down and button the cuff.
Greta notices anyway.
She doesn’t say anything. Just sets a bowl of stew in front of me at lunch and watches until I pick up the spoon.
“You need to eat more,” she tells me.
“You say that every day, Greta.” I smile.
“Because it’s true every day, honey.” She folds her arms over her chest. “I don’t know how you manage to do what you do. Lifting and carrying and up at all hours.”
“I love what I do,” I assure her. “It’s never a burden.”
“That’s because there’s an angel inside you.” She nods. “I wish she’d tell you to eat, though. You’re wasting away.”
“I’m just built light, Greta. But I’m wiry.”
“Mmhmm.” She doesn’t sound convinced. Her eyes flick to my wrist once, then away.
The stew smells like rosemary and slow-cooked lamb. I eat it without tasting it, and Greta watches me. Neither of us mentions the fingerprints on my wrist.
When I’m done, I rinse off my plate, give her shoulder a fond pat, and head back to my station. It’s been quieter since many of the first batch of wolves have been cleared to leave the healers’ wing. Not that they’re healed. There’s only so much I can do with my skills. Only time and care can handle the rest.
I’m lost in the tedium of tidying when something catches my attention.
Merric doesn’t announce himself. He’s just there, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed, watching me count jars of valerian root like it’s the most interesting thing he’s seen all week.
“You need something?” I ask without looking up.
“Checking in.”
“I’m fine.”
“Didn’t say you weren’t.”
I set down the jar and turn to face him. He’s not doing anything, just standing there, his weight on one hip, his expression neutral. But his eyes are on my rolled-down sleeve, and they stay there half a second too long before they come back to my face.
“The wolf in the recovery room,” he says. “How’s he doing?”
“Stable. Wounds healing. No complications.”
“And the sedation protocol?”
My hands don’t move. I keep them flat on the desk, fingers spread.
“Following the plan Brenna and I agreed on.”
It’s true. Technically. We agreed on a protocol. I’m following a protocol. That the protocol may not be working is a detail I’m choosing not to go into.
