The summons comes on a Tuesday morning, delivered by a kid who can't be more than sixteen and looks absolutely terrified of me.

"Maven Thorne wants to see you," he stammers, not quite meeting my eyes. "At the medical quarters. Before noon."

I'm sprawled on the worn couch in my cabin—the one Kael insists on paying for, though I've stopped arguing about it—nursing coffee that's gone cold and bitter. Perfect metaphor for my life, really. I don't look up from the book I'm pretending to read.

"Tell Maven I'm busy."

"She said you'd say that." The kid swallows hard. "She also said to tell you that if you don't show up, she'll come find you herself. And she said—" he glances down at a crumpled note in his hand, "—'that girl's too smart to make me come get her.'"

I snort despite myself.

Maven Thorne doesn't do summons. She does imperatives disguised as requests, delivered with the kind of certainty that makes refusing feel like a personal insult. The woman's a force of nature—the kind of force that doesn't negotiate with obstacles, just moves through them.

"Fine," I mutter. "Tell her I'll be there."

The kid practically sprints away, relief flooding his face.

I sit there for another ten minutes, staring at the same paragraph I've read five times without absorbing a single word. The book is a mystery novel—fitting, since my entire existence has become one. What does Maven want with me? Kael's been careful not to push, not since that night at the cabin when I made it clear that whatever's between us is complicated enough without adding his mother into the mix.

Though the way she looked at me at the last pack gathering—sharp, assessing, like she was cataloging my weaknesses—suggested she's been watching. Waiting.

I change into clean clothes, braid my hair tighter than necessary, and head out before I can talk myself into another excuse.

---

The medical quarters smell like antiseptic and herbs, with an undertone of something ancient and medicinal that probably cost more than I make in a month. The building itself is impressive—stone and glass, with large windows that let in the pale autumn light. Organized. Efficient. Everything I'm not.

Maven's in the back, hands deep in some kind of herbal preparation, surrounded by jars of powders and tinctures that probably have names I can't pronounce. She doesn't look up when I enter, but her shoulders shift slightly—acknowledgment.

"You came," she says, still focused on her work.

"Didn't seem optional."

"There's always a choice, Iris. Some people are just better at making the hard ones." She finally glances over, and I catch my breath. Her eyes are the same sharp brown as Kael's, but where his hold warmth, hers are pure calculation. "Sit."

I don't sit. It's petty, but I need to establish that I'm not here to be ordered around.

Maven's lips curve slightly—not quite a smile, more like acknowledgment of a chess move. "Suit yourself. I'm going to make an offer. You're free to refuse it, though you won't because you're smart enough to know when you're being thrown a lifeline."

"I don't need—"

"A lifeline?" She sets down her mortar and pestle with deliberate care, then turns to face me fully. "You're living in a cabin that's barely standing, taking odd jobs that pay in cash so you don't have to integrate into pack structure, and you're drinking yourself into a stupor most nights because the silence is louder than any noise. Yes, Iris. You need."

The words land like a slap, precise and brutal. I want to argue, to throw something cutting back at her, but there's no judgment in her voice. Just observation. Fact-stating. Like she's describing the weather.

"I need an assistant," Maven continues, turning back to her herbs. "Someone who's detail-oriented, strong enough to move patients, and smart enough not to ask questions about things that aren't their business. The position comes with room and board, a salary, and the understanding that you'll be part of this pack's infrastructure. Not as a charity case. As an employee."

"Kael put you up to this."

"My son is many things," Maven says, crushing something that smells like lavender with more force than strictly necessary. "Subtle is not one of them. Yes, he's been worried about you. That's his burden to carry. But I'm making this offer because I'm short-staffed and because I respect strength when I see it. You've survived things that would have broken most people. That's useful to me."

I hate that she's right. I hate more that she's not pretending to be nice about it. There's no coddling here, no gentle suggestions or careful wording. Just a woman laying out facts and letting me decide if I'm smart enough to take them.

"What's the catch?" I ask.

"No catch. You work. You live here. You become part of the pack's medical infrastructure. Eventually, you might even trust someone enough to let them help you, but that's not a requirement of employment." She picks up her mortar again, resuming her work with the kind of focus that suggests the conversation is already decided. "You start tomorrow. Six in the morning. Bring whatever you can carry."

"And if I say no?"

"Then you'll continue doing whatever it is you're doing now, and I'll find someone else. But we both know you won't say no."

She's right. Goddammit, she's right.

I should leave. I should walk out of here and go back to my cabin and my cold coffee and my pretend reading. I should maintain the careful distance I've cultivated, the walls that keep everyone at arm's length where they can't hurt me.

Instead, I hear myself say: "Fine. Tomorrow. Six."

Maven nods, still not looking at me. "Good. We have a patient in the back who needs wounds cleaned. You can start now, get a sense of the work."

---

The patient is a young wolf—maybe nineteen, with a nasty gash on his shoulder that looks like it came from a territorial dispute. He's nervous when Maven brings me back, eyes darting between us like he's not sure if I'm going to eat him.

"This is Iris," Maven says, already pulling out supplies with practiced efficiency. "She'll be helping me from now on. Iris, this is Marcus. He's going to sit still while we clean that wound, aren't you, Marcus?"

It's not a question.

I move through the work on autopilot—warm water, antiseptic, careful handling of the torn flesh. The wound's not infected, which is good. The stitches Maven uses are precise, her hands steady. I watch her work, noting the economy of movement, the way she doesn't waste energy on anything unnecessary.

She reminds me of myself.

"Hand me the salve," she says, and I do, anticipating her need before she has to ask. We fall into a rhythm—action and reaction, need and fulfillment. It's almost meditative, and for the first time in weeks, I feel something that might be close to peace.

When we're done, Maven wraps Marcus's shoulder with clean bandages and sends him off with instructions about keeping it dry and coming back in three days.

"You're good at this," she says once he's gone.

"I'm good at following instructions."

"No." She sets down her supplies and meets my eyes directly. "You're good at reading what people need before they ask. That's a skill you can't teach. That's instinct." She pauses. "You have strong instincts, Iris. Your problem is that you've trained yourself not to trust them."

I want to argue. Instead, I ask: "Why do you care?"

Maven's expression softens slightly—just enough that I catch a glimpse of something vulnerable beneath the steel. "Because I lost someone once. A long time ago. Someone I loved because I was too afraid to trust my instincts about him. Too afraid to believe that someone could choose me, even when everything in me screamed that he would." She looks away. "I won't watch someone else make that mistake."

There's a story there, heavy and painful. I don't ask for it. Instead, I say: "I'm not good at trusting people."

"I know." Maven picks up her mortar again, resuming her work with the herbs. "But you're good at loyalty once you decide someone's worth it. That's enough to start with."

---

I leave the medical quarters as the sun's beginning to set, painting the sky in shades of orange and purple that feel almost obscene in their beauty. My mind is spinning—tomorrow, I'll be living in the pack's territory officially. I'll be part of the structure I've been avoiding. I'll be in proximity to Kael every single day, which means proximity to temptation, to the dangerous possibility of actually wanting something I can't have.

I'm so lost in thought that I almost miss him.

He's leaning against the fence that separates the medical quarters from the main path, arms crossed, looking at me with an expression that's caught somewhere between relief and something darker. Possessive. Hungry.

"Maven said you'd agreed," Kael says.

"Maven seems to have a lot of opinions about my life."

"She cares about you." He pushes off from the fence, moving toward me with that controlled grace that makes my wolf sit up and pay attention. "So do I."

"Kael—"

"I'm not asking you to feel the same way." He stops a few feet away, close enough that I can smell the cedarwood and smoke that clings to him, the wild untamed scent that makes my pulse jump. "But I'm not going to pretend I don't either. Not anymore."

The air between us crackles with tension, electric and dangerous. I should step back. I should make a joke, deflect with sarcasm, build the walls higher. Instead, I stand there like an idiot, hyperaware of every inch of space between us.

"This is a mistake," I whisper.

"Probably." He takes another step closer. "But I stopped caring about mistakes the day I chose you over my pack. Might as well commit to it."

"That's not fair."

"No," he agrees. "It's not. None of this is fair. You didn't ask for me to be obsessed with you. I didn't ask to be the kind of man who'd burn down everything for someone who won't even let me get close enough to try." He reaches out, his hand coming up to brush a strand of hair away from my face, and the touch is so gentle it breaks something inside me. "But here we are."

I can't breathe. His amber eyes are fixed on mine, and I can see the want there, raw and honest and terrifying. His hand trails down my cheek, and my skin feels like it's on fire, like every nerve ending has suddenly become aware of his existence, of the heat radiating off him, of the way he smells like home and danger in equal measure.

"Don't," I say, but my voice is weak, unconvincing.

"Why not?"

"Because I'll hurt you. Because I don't know how to do this. Because—"

He closes the distance between us, his hand sliding to the back of my neck, his forehead coming to rest against mine. We're not quite touching, but it's close enough that I can feel the warmth of him, the solid reality of his presence.

"Because you're terrified," he finishes. "I know, Iris. I know."

My hands are shaking. I can feel my heart hammering against my ribs, feel the way my body is responding to him despite every rational thought screaming at me to run. His thumb traces the curve of my jaw, and I have to close my eyes against the sensation.

"I don't do this," I say. "I don't do relationships, I don't do vulnerability, I don't—"

"I know." His voice is soft, almost broken. "But you're going to let me try anyway. Because tomorrow you're going to be living here, and you're going to see me every day, and you're going to realize that I'm not going anywhere."

He pulls back before I can respond, before I can do something stupid like kiss him. His amber eyes are dark with desire, and there's a slight flush across his bronze skin that tells me his control is costing him something.

"Get some rest," he says. "Tomorrow's going to be intense."

He walks away before I can respond, leaving me standing in the fading light, trembling and furious and desperate for something I'm too scared to name.

---

I don't sleep that night.

Instead, I pack my few possessions into a duffel bag—clothes, books, the small collection of things that have accumulated in my cabin over the months. Everything I own fits in one bag. That's probably telling, in some way. That's probably why Maven looked at me with that mixture of pity and respect.

At five-thirty in the morning, I shoulder the bag and make my way to the medical quarters.

Maven's already awake, already working, moving through the space with the kind of efficiency that suggests she hasn't slept either. She glances at my bag, nods once, and gestures toward the back of the building.

"There's a room through there. Small, but it's yours. Get settled, then we have a patient coming in at six-thirty with a fever we can't break."

I find the room—sparse but clean, with a narrow bed and a small desk. There's a window that looks out over the forest, and for the first time in a long time, I feel something that might be close to home.

I set down my bag and lean against the wall, trying to process what I've done.

I've moved in. I've accepted a job. I've put myself in a position where I can't hide anymore, can't maintain the careful distance that's kept me safe. Tomorrow, I'll see Kael. And the day after that. And every day after that.

He was right. I am terrified.

But as I hear Maven moving through the medical quarters, as I smell the herbs and antiseptic and something ancient and wise, I realize something else.

For the first time since I was cast out, I'm not alone.

The thought should terrify me more than it does.

There's a soft knock on my door, and I tense. But it's just Maven, carrying a cup of tea that smells like chamomile and something else—something that makes my muscles relax despite my best efforts.

"Drink this," she says. "You'll need rest before we start. And Iris?" She pauses in the doorway, her sharp eyes meeting mine. "You made the right choice."

I don't argue. Instead, I take the tea and watch her leave, wondering if she's right.

Wondering if I'm smart enough to trust my instincts, or if I'm just walking toward the very thing that will destroy me.

The tea tastes like acceptance, which is more terrifying than anything else.