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She searches my face. "Just like that?"

"Do not push your luck, little mate. I'm still considering having him handcuffed between the airport and the infirmary."

Her mouth twitches.

"And gagged," I add. "So I don't have to listen to him."

"Ivan."

"What? I said I'd let him work. I never promised to enjoy his company."

She laughs then, and fuck, I needed that sound.

"Thank you," she whispers.

I pull her against me. "Save my brother, Cienna. That's all I ask."

Cienna sighs and moves into my arms. Her arms wrap around my waist and I bury my face in her hair. The soft curls tease my nose. Her hair curled up into a halo after our first shower. She ran her hands over them and demanded a flat iron. I'm still not sure what that is, but I love her soft curls. I prefer them like this, wild and soft against my face.

I squeeze her tighter, and my tiger, who's been a rage all morning, rolls over and purrs. My pulse slows and the disgusting bile photos, the betrayal, the asshole ex, it all clouds at the edges. She handles my heart with the softest touch, settles it back in its cage, and steps away.

"I will wait at the cabin," I say with a sigh. Trying hard not to dispel the mate magic she worked. "I cannot be in the room. Because if I kill him, you will hate me, and I would not survive that."

Her hands flatten on my chest, and she looks up at me with her big brown eyes fixed on mine. "You are not going to lose me, Ivan. Not to him. Not to anyone. That doesn't change because... someone consults me on a case."

I pull her into me and bury my face in her neck, in the mark I left there, pulling on our bond again. "One day," I say in a low growl. "He gets one damn day. Then he is gone, and we never speak of him again."

"One day," she agrees.

My tiger snarls, threatening to rake me from the inside, but I make him stand down. He will soon have Pavel to use as a chew toy to feed his need for blood.

Meanwhile, he is not the vor, I am.

Chapter 9: Cienna

Six hours into surgery, Steven is still across the table from me, exactly where he always stands when a case starts going sideways on us. And we fall back into the same rhythm without discussing it, the way we do in every lab and every operating room we ever share. All those years of late-night lab work, residencies and grant proposals crowd back in while my hands keep moving. I don't have to ask for the syringe or tell him to adjust the clamp; he's already done it. I reach for the retractor, and he slides it in before my fingers close.

I catch Steven's eye over the table, and for one unguarded second — we smile at each other. The old smile. The same smile from Minneapolis, from every result we ever read at the same second and understood at the same second. Minneapolis is right here, under these lights, with his hands anticipating mine. I try to focus on the patient and ignore the ache of knowing that, whatever happens after today, this may be the last time we work together like this.

Dr. Roger clears his throat pointedly, and Steven drops his gaze back to the surgical field, shattering the moment. But the ache stays.

By hour seven, the site flushes pink. The black streaks pull back millimeter by millimeter from the site while I watch the margin clear. The white blood cell count drops on the lab readout as Alex's body stops attacking his prosthetic.

The first threads of new vascular tissue are integrating together — they light up on the scope, delicate as spider silk. Tears flood my cheeks in the middle of the operating theater while my hands stay steady over Alex. My mask is soaked, but my hands are steady, because thank God, thank God.

Alex is going to live. He needs physical therapy next, which means weeks of a shifter refusing every limit I put in front of him. I might need to call in Tamara; she's my go-to for stubborn shifters who don't accept that complete healing takes time. He's not going to like it. But it doesn't matter.

Alex is going to shift.

His fingers twitch beneath mine. When I look down, his eyes are open just enough to find me.

"Did you fix me, Doc?"

My throat closes. "I think we did."

He manages the smallest, cockiest smile. "Good. Because Mama's threatening to move in with me if I lose this arm, and Doc, I love that woman, but I'd rather fight another bear."

A laugh escapes me, wet and helpless. "You're not shifting tomorrow, Aleksej. Don't even think about it."