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“Our medic tried to heal you,” he finally says. “But his magic didn’t work on you.”

“I need to see it.”

He frowns.

I look over my shoulder and meet his eyes. “If you’re seriously telling me I have a wolf’s claw marks on my back, I want to see the damage.”

“Fine.” He stands and pushes the blankets off my legs.

He doesn’t offer me any assistance as I swing my legs over and put my feet on the floor.

My face flames at my bare legs. They’re covered in bruises… and the shorts I’m wearing aren’t mine either. They’re fitted and soft, like cut-off sweatpants. Not his.

Whatever his name is.

I stand and go to the tall mirror in the corner. He follows me silently. He doesn’t say anything when I turn around and try to get the shirt out of the way. He just reaches out and lifts the material for me. He’s standing right in front of me, his chest practically touching mine. I look up at him, but he’s studiously ignoring me. His gaze is fixed on my back, in the mirror.

When I crane back around, I gasp.

There are four deep gouges in my skin, diagonal across my back—from right shoulder to left hip. They’re partially closed, the blood scabbed over and dark. The torn skin around each is jagged and bright red, which doesn’t seem like a good sign.

They don’t look fresh. How long have I been unconscious?

“Infection,” he explains in a low voice. “We did what we could, but as I said, my medic couldn’t get it to stick. He’s never tried to heal a witch before. We don’t know if your kind is… impervious.”

“But your magic worked?” I step back to put more distance between us.

He doesn’t release the shirt, though. He easily tows me into him and puts his hand over the largest of the wounds. Like when he put his hand on my throat, his hot magic slips under my skin. It’s hot and itchy.

“I can heal you,” he concedes. “But I will never deplete all my strength for you.”

“Noted.” I roll my eyes. “I expected you to leave me for dead, so…”

The pain lessens in degrees. It’s like he’s spreading a balm across my skin. I grip his arm, ignoring the fact that, under other circumstances, I’d never willingly touch him, let alone put myself in the same room as him.

Or ride on his back.

Bile climbs up my throat.

As soon as I’m well enough to leave, I will.

I groan at the sensation spreading across my back. My knees wobble, and he shifts us so he’s half supporting my weight. His other hand stays on my back.

“I won’t heal you all the way,” he warns.

“Obviously,” I bite out. Still, it feels great. Itchy, warm, splendid. My magic, which has lain dormant until now, rushes up inside me.

Brighter.

My lips part as I push into the well of it. There’s… more. And I don’t understand where it’s coming from or how I suddenly have more reserves.

“You smell of magic,” he says suddenly, dropping his hand. He backs up, leaving me to stand on my own. “If you hurt any of my pack, I will make sure your death is twice as painful.”

I glower at him. “I won’t hurt anyone who doesn’t hurt me.”

“Don’t expect kindness here. You use your magic for any reason, and you’re as good as dead.”

“I’ll leave, then.” I look around the room. “As soon as you point me toward my boots.”