“He’s up!” someone had yelled. “I can hear him moving inside there.”
I’d barely had time to register that they were talking about me before the door opened. Three men. Big. Moving fast.
Hands again.
I fought. I think I fought. Something tore. Someone’s arm. I remember the curse, brief and sharp, before it cut off into a grunt of pain. I remember the sound my claws made on the floorboards, a screech that set my teeth wrong, a frequency that vibrated up through my wrists and into my chest and made the wolf lunge harder.
My stomach twists. I don’t want to remember. I don’t want to know.
The woman—Sable, I’ve heard them call her Sable—is moving around the room now. I hear the clink of glass, the rustle of supplies being gathered. Her footsteps are quieter than the men’s. Lighter. There’s a rhythm to them—counter to table, table to shelf, shelf to basin. Practiced. A pattern she’s walked many times.
My wolf tracks her through the room without lifting his head. Every footstep registers. Every shift in her scent, the lavender fading as she moves away, strengthening as she passes close. The wolf isn’t snarling anymore. He stopped when she touched my wrist. He’s lying low in my chest, ears forward, following her the way you follow a sound you almost recognize.
A knock at the door. Male voices again, overlapping.
“Healer Sable?”
“My mother asked us to come help clear up.”
She answers, but I can’t make out the words. The drug is pulling me under again, slow and inevitable. My vision blurs. The ceiling becomes a smear of gray.
More footsteps. Heavier this time. Three sets.
My wolf stirs, sluggish and sedated but still snarling.Threat. Hands. Run.
But I can’t run. I can’t even lift my fucking head.
“How’s he doing?”
The voice is young. Male. Concerned in a way that doesn’t compute.
“No change. Got some bumps and scrapes during the scuffle, a gash on his arm, but he’ll be okay.”
Scuffle.Like I’m a dog that bit someone. Like it was just an accident.
That’s different, too. Before, escape came with consequences. Always. A dislocated shoulder wrenched back into place without anesthesia. An extra session on the table. Dr. Fell’s flat voice:“Noted. Increase restraint protocol for next session.”
Here, the word they use isscuffle.
I hear them moving around the room, lifting things, righting furniture. Something scrapes across the floor. Someone grunts with effort.
Then, closer. Too close.
Hands slide under my shoulders. Under my knees. Lifting.
The wolf roars. I try to thrash, try to get free, but my body is dead weight. My claws won’t extend. My teeth won’t shift.
“Easy,” one of them says. “We’ve got you.”
No. No.Hands. Table. Restraints. The runes burning into skin.
But then…her scent. Stronger now. Right there.
I force my eyes open again, just a slit; it’s getting harder now, after the second needle. She’s between them and me. Her body a barrier, her hands hovering like she’s not sure whether to touch me or push them back.
“Carefully,” she says. Her voice is steady. Firm. “Set him down carefully.”
They lower me onto something soft. A mattress. Not the exam table. Not the restraint chair.
