My wolf presses toward her scent the way he presses toward nothing else. The certainty of it sits in my chest alongside the shame, and I don’t know which to focus on.
The vehicle sways. I slip under. Come back. Slip under again.
The next time I surface, the handlers are talking about something else…a card game, a schedule change, something normal. Their voices drift over me. Time has passed. The engine hum has changed pitch, which means the road has changed.
“Readings are spiking. He’s pushing back against the suppressor.”
“It’ll hold. Just watch him.”
The vehicle hits a hard bump. The straps bite.
“—need to up the dose—”
“No. Orders were explicit. Minimal intervention during transport.”
“His vitals—”
“Are fine. Sit down.”
I try to move my arms. The straps hold. My fingers curl into fists that close on nothing.
Footsteps. Someone standing up.
Her voice. Quiet. Clear. The voice that talks to me through the dark when everything else is chemicals and locked doors.
“Let me sit with him.”
“Ma’am, the procedures for the subject—”
“He’s not a subject. Don’t call him that.”
“With respect, we’ve got containment procedures for a reason. Your presence could—”
“My presence will calm him down. Look at his heart rate.”
Silence. Then: “Fine. But don’t touch the restraints.”
Her scent gets stronger. She’s moving closer. I try to crack my eyelids. The shapes resolve. Metal interior. Equipment racks. Dark uniforms.
And her.
Sitting on the bench beside the transport bed. Her face is drawn, tired, but her eyes are on me. Steady. Brown. The color of earth. Of calm.
My wolf settles.
“Hey,” she says quietly. “It’s me. I’m here.”
The straps are still there. The antiseptic is still there. The buzz is still pressing behind my eyes.
But she’s here.
I try to reach toward her. The strap catches my wrist. My hand moves maybe an inch.
One of the handlers steps forward. “Ma’am, step back—”
“He’s fine. Look at him.”
“His readings—”
