Page 22 of Beasts of Mine

I will not bite you, the leopard replied, sounding faintly offended by my continuing concern.

“You have very large teeth,” I told him, crouching several feet away before inching closer. “Respecting them feels like common sense.”

You mention my teeth often, the leopard observed, his whiskers moving slightly as his eyes followed me.

“I've known you for approximately five minutes,” I reminded him, extending one gloved hand toward his shoulder. “Your teeth are currently one of your most noticeable features.”

That low, almost amused rumble returned.

I smiled despite myself.

“I'm touching your side now,” I told the leopard, letting my fingertips make contact with the fur above his shoulder before moving toward the bloodied area. “Tell me if I hurt you.”

You worry too much, the leopard replied, although he remained perfectly still while I carefully separated the damp fur.

“That's easy for you to say when you're not the one putting your hands on a leopard,” I told him, concentrating on the wound beneath my fingertips. The cut along his flank was long, but thankfully not as deep as the amount of blood had suggested. Dirt and dried leaves had stuck to several places along the edges, and he flinched when I touched one particularly tender section.

“There,” I murmured to the leopard, immediately easing the pressure of my fingers. “That hurts.”

I have had worse, the leopard replied, turning his head enough to look down at what I was doing.

“That doesn't make this one stop hurting,” I told him, reaching for the saline. His attention stayed on me while I flushed the dirt from the wound. The muscles beneath his fur tightened.

“Sorry,” I murmured to the leopard, slowing when he shifted. “I know this part isn't pleasant.”

Continue, the leopard instructed, his voice quieter as he lowered his head again. There was something oddly intimate about being trusted enough to touch him.

That thought made me pause. I had treated injured animals before, but those situations usually involved sedation, trained veterinary staff, or a barrier between me and anything capable of removing my hand.

This was different.

He was allowing it.

Watching me.

Choosing to stay still.

I pushed the thought aside and moved toward his injured front leg. The moment I parted the fur, my mood changed. A narrow raw line circled part of the limb.

Wire damage.

I knew it immediately.

“You were caught in a snare,” I told the leopard, anger creeping into my voice as I inspected the swollen skin around the abrasion.

His body became noticeably more rigid.

Briefly, the leopard replied, the earlier amusement disappearing completely.

“Did you break it?” I asked the leopard, checking the paw carefully for swelling while making sure there was no obvious damage to the bones.

Yes, the leopard answered, his gaze shifting toward the forest beyond my shoulder. The single word carried more anger than fear.

“The tayra I helped yesterday was caught in one too,” I told the leopard, picking up the antiseptic while my mind returned to the hidden wire I'd removed. “Is that normal around here? Poachers? Illegal hunting?”

The leopard's eyes returned to me.

No, the leopard replied, his deep voice becoming firmer. There should not be traps in this part of the forest.