That’s all it is.
He needs sky. He needs space. He needs to wake up somewhere that doesn’t have bars or locks or strangers’ hands forcing him down.
Instead, I’ve just put him under in a room that will be locked again as soon as I leave.
It’s the right decision. It’s the safe decision. It’s the only decision Brenna could have made.
It’s also wrong.
I brush his hair from his forehead, then pull my hand back when he twitches. He shouldn’t be able to do that. But sometimes it takes a little longer for the drug to take hold.
Rising, I straighten up and pull myself away, busying myself with tidying around me until there’s a knock at the door.
“Healer Sable?” It’s Cameron. “Mom asked us to come in to help clear up.”
“Right. Great.” I stand, knees protesting, and pull the blanket up over his shoulders. My hand rests on his forearm for just a moment—not on the tattoo, just beside it where his skin is warm, and his pulse beats steady.
I head to the door and unlock it, revealing Brenna’s son standing alongside Lachlan and Conner. There’s a cot in the corridor behind them. I step aside, and they file in, Conner and Cameron hefting the cot through the door between them.
“How’s he doing?” asks Lachlan, glancing at the prone form on the blanket.
“No change,” I tell him. “Got some bumps and scrapes during the scuffle, a gash on his arm. But he’ll be okay.”
Lachlan nods. The other two are clearing the ruined furniture from the room. Within a few minutes, they’ve restored a measure of order. I’m standing watching them with my arms folded when I realize they’re looking at me expectantly.
“All done?” I ask.
“We…uh need to get him back onto his bed,” Cameron tells me. It’s only then that I notice that I’ve positioned myself between the three males and my patient like a human barricade, and I can’t tell if it’s to protect them or him.
Get over it, Sable. You’re not protecting anyone.
I step aside and find myself tensing as they lift him up and set him carefully onto the mattress.
Cameron is watching me with his head tilted. The kid’s got a strange intuition that he probably inherited from his mother. I shift uncomfortably. It’s been a couple of months since I moved from Frostbourne to Ravenclaw, and I’m still getting used to being surrounded by magic-bloods.
“Thank you,” I tell them. “I’ll take it from here.”
“You sure?” asks Conner. “Because we can—”
“Totally sure,” I stop him. “The sooner we can get back to his routine, the better.”
“Fine,” he says. “But if you need anything…”
“I’ll call you.” I smile. “But I think we’ll be good.”
They troop out in silence, though I’m sure they have a flood of unanswered questions. I shut the door behind them.
I’m alone.
I clear the rest of the room, restock the supplies, check inventory. Routine tasks, muscle memory, things I can do without thinking. When I’m done, I turn to look at him again.
He lies unmoving, chest rising and falling, lost somewhere in medicated sleep.
I step closer and straighten the covers, tucking them around him carefully.
His features are relaxed. Almost peaceful.
But I know better.
