Page 40

I don't go back to sleep. I just sit on the edge of the bed and stare at the wall and try to figure out what I'm supposed to do now. Other than be his mate. What is my life supposed to look like in this place? And then it occurs to me — quiet, steady, the only thing that makes sense: I am a doctor. That, at least, is mine. That, at least, I know how to be.

I can help shifters when they're in need. I can carve out my own space in the infirmary, stitch by stitch, patient by patient. Maybe that's how I'll make my place here — not as an outsider, but as the one they come to when they're hurt. The one who fixes things.

It can be one part of my life here. One part I choose. Starting right now.

I pull on my boots and my coat, and I walk to the infirmary, nodding at the guards who let me pass without question, and I'm just starting to inventory my day. Check on Alex, review his wound, talk to Dr. Roger about arranging physical therapy, when I hear it.

A cry. Human. Ragged.

I stop. My first thought is Alex—something's gone wrong, the prosthetic is failing, he's crashing, but the sound isn't coming from the main building. It's coming from another smaller annex.

I change direction immediately. Somebody is hurt. That's a huge part of who I am. Not just mate, omega, or anything else. This is who I am, and this is what I do.

The annex is unlocked — nothing is locked around here — and the smell hits me first. Blood. Fear. Tiger.

He's in the last bed on the left.

A man—a tiger shifter—is handcuffed to the bed rail with a shift-inhibiting cuff. Those restraints are illegal outside tightly controlled law enforcement use. Suppressing a shifter's change is cruel enough. Doing it to someone this badly hurt means his body can't heal the way it should. I make a mental note to speak to Ivan. I don't know who this man is, or what he's done, but he still needs treatment.

His face is a ruin of bruises. His lip is split, one eye swollen shut. When he lifts his head, he winces.

"Please," he rasps in English. "You're the American doctor, yes? The one who saved Aleksej?"

I stop several feet from the bed. "Who are you?"

"Pavel." He coughs, wet and painful. "I made a mistake. The vor is angry. You know how he is." He attempts a smile and flinches. "I looked at his mate too long. I meant no disrespect. I tried to apologize, but he does not listen."

My stomach twists. Steven's blood on the snow flashes through my mind. I know Ivan can be violent. But beating a man this badly for looking at me? I don't want to believe it.

"I'll get Dr. Roger."

"Please. Water first. I am so thirsty."

I fill a cup from the pitcher on the counter and set it on the bedside table, beyond his reach until I can decide how to help him safely. His free hand trembles as he reaches for it. He misses, knocking the cup onto the floor.

"My hand," he whispers. "The cuff. I cannot feel my fingers."

I look at the restrained wrist. The skin is raw and swollen where the metal bites into it. His fingertips have an ugly color. I don't like the look of them at all.

"I'm not removing the restraint," I tell him. "But I need to check your circulation. Then I'll have someone come adjust it."

He nods weakly. "Thank you, Doctor."

I approach from the cuffed side, watching his free hand. He's barely holding himself upright. Between the bruising and the inhibitor, I can't imagine he has enough strength left to sit up, much less fight.

I reach toward his wrist.

His free hand shoots across the narrow space and clamps around my forearm.

I gasp. He yanks me against the bed rail before I can twist away. Pain shoots through my arm, and my cougar lunges against my skin, ready to defend us. But his fingers tighten until I feel something give.

"The key," he growls. "On the table."

"Let me go."

"Unlock it, Doctor, or I break your arm."

The key sits inches from my shaking hand. I glance toward the door. Too far. No one knows I'm in here. I could scream, but he can break my arm faster than anyone could reach me.