The medical quarters smell like antiseptic and something herbal I can't quite place—something that makes my sinuses burn in a way that's almost cleansing. Maven has me prepping supplies before eight in the morning, her sharp eyes cataloging my every movement like I'm a wolf she's sizing up for the hunt.

Which, let's be honest, I probably am.

"Bandages here," she says, pointing to a shelf with the kind of authority that makes people jump. "Salves organized by type—healing first, pain management second, infection prevention third. Don't mix them. I've seen people lose fingers over carelessness."

I nod, keeping my expression carefully neutral. Maven Thorne doesn't tolerate weakness or stupidity, and I'm determined to give her neither. This job is temporary—a way to pay back the debt I apparently accumulated just by existing in Kael's vicinity—but that doesn't mean I'm going to fuck it up.

The irony isn't lost on me. I survived a pack rejection that would've destroyed most people, clawed my way back to something resembling a life, and now I'm here organizing bandages like some kind of domestic fantasy.

Story of my existence, really.

"You have steady hands," Maven observes, watching me arrange the supplies with methodical precision. "That's good. Most people panic when they see blood. They get sloppy."

"I've seen worse," I say flatly.

Her eyes narrow—sharp as broken glass. "Yes. I imagine you have."

There's something in her tone that makes me look up. She's studying me with an intensity that feels almost clinical, but underneath it, there's something else. Something that might be respect, or might be the prelude to judgment. With Maven, it's impossible to tell.

"Kael will be here within the hour," she says, turning away to organize her own workspace. "We have a pack member with a badly infected wound from a territorial dispute. It needs cleaning, suturing, and monitoring. You'll assist."

My stomach does something complicated at the mention of his name.

I don't respond, just keep my hands moving, keep my breathing steady. This is fine. This is professional. I can work in close proximity to Kael Thorne without my nervous system staging a full rebellion.

(I cannot.)

The morning stretches out in a blur of preparation. Maven walks me through the medical supplies like she's conducting a symphony, her movements economical and precise. She's a healer the way warriors are warriors—with the kind of bone-deep competence that comes from years of practice and the weight of lives depending on your hands not shaking.

I respect the hell out of her, which is inconvenient.

At 8:47, I smell cedarwood and smoke before I see him.

It's a physical thing, that scent—it hits my nervous system like an electric charge, and I have to grip the edge of the counter to keep my hands steady. My wolf rises up inside me, suddenly alert and interested in a way that makes my skin feel too tight.

Kael fills the doorway like he was designed to, broad-shouldered and tall enough that he has to duck slightly. His auburn hair is damp like he just came from a run, and there's a wildness in his amber eyes that makes my mouth go dry.

Fuck.

"Maven," he says, his voice warm and familiar. Then his gaze slides to me, and something shifts in his expression—a tightening around the eyes, a slight tension in his jaw. "Iris."

"Thorne," I say, keeping my tone casual, like my heart isn't suddenly trying to claw its way out of my chest. "Here to supervise, or are you actually useful in a medical setting?"

The corner of his mouth twitches. "Thought I'd give you someone to practice your bedside manner on."

"My bedside manner is legendary," I deadpan. "Patients love it when I tell them their wounds are impressive and they should probably get a hobby that doesn't involve bleeding on people."

Maven makes a sound that might be a laugh, quickly covered by a cough. Kael's full smile breaks through, and it's the kind of smile that should come with a warning label.

Dangerous. Keep distance. Do not engage.

"Jax is in the back room," Maven says, already moving toward the door. "He's conscious but uncomfortable. Kael, you know what we're dealing with?"

"Infected claw wound from the Valdris pack," he confirms, moving deeper into the space. His presence seems to consume the oxygen. "Three days old, started showing signs of infection yesterday."

I watch him move through the medical quarters with surprising ease, clearly familiar with the layout. Of course he is. He's second-in-command—he probably knows every inch of this territory, every protocol, every person.

The thought makes something bitter twist in my chest.

"Iris will help with the cleaning and prep," Maven says, and I swear there's amusement in her voice. "Kael, you'll assist with the suturing. I want to monitor the infection progression."

She disappears into the back room before either of us can respond.

The silence that follows is the kind of silence that has weight.

I keep my hands busy, gathering the supplies Maven mentioned—sterile cloths, the infection-prevention salve, needle and thread for suturing. My fingers are steady, but my awareness is laser-focused on Kael, on the way he's casually removing his shirt because apparently that's what we're doing now.

Jesus Christ.

He's a work of art and a nightmare wrapped up in bronze skin and muscle. There's a scar I don't recognize cutting down his ribs—long and vicious, the kind of scar that comes from something that nearly killed you. I wonder what he was protecting when he got it. I wonder if it hurt.

"You good?" His voice is closer than I expected.

I look up, and he's watching me with those amber eyes, and I realize I've been staring.

"Fine," I say, turning away to grab more supplies. "Just thinking about how much blood I'm about to have to deal with."

"You could've said no to this job."

"Could've," I agree, keeping my tone light. "But then I'd owe you even more, and we both know how much I love being indebted to people."

He's quiet for a moment. I can feel him watching me, can feel the weight of whatever he's thinking pressing against my back.

"Maven asked me to work with you," he says finally. "I didn't request it."

The words land like a punch. I turn around, and his expression is carefully neutral, but there's something in his eyes that looks like he's bracing for impact.

"Good," I say flatly. "Because I wouldn't want you thinking I asked for this either."

It's a lie, and we both know it, but it's a necessary lie. It's the kind of lie that keeps walls intact.

Maven returns before he can respond, a patient in tow—a man I recognize as Jax, one of the younger pack members, looking absolutely miserable. His left shoulder is wrapped in bandages that are already starting to seep.

"Let's get you on the table," Maven says, already in healer mode. "Iris, start with the sterile wash. Kael, I need you to help keep him still."

The next hour is controlled chaos.

Jax's wound is exactly as bad as I expected—infected, angry, the kind of thing that could've turned septic if left much longer. I work with methodical precision, cleaning away the infection, trying to ignore the way Kael's presence makes every nerve in my body vibrate.

But ignoring it is impossible.

When I lean in to clean the deepest part of the wound, he's right there, his hand on Jax's shoulder, and the scent of cedarwood and smoke wraps around me like something alive. His forearm brushes against mine—barely a touch, but my skin responds like he's set me on fire.

I pull back too quickly, nearly knocking over the sterile wash.

"Careful," Maven says, not looking up from where she's preparing the sutures.

"I've got it," I mutter, focusing intently on the wound. On anything that isn't the fact that Kael is standing close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off his body.

This is torture.

This is a carefully constructed torture chamber, and Maven is absolutely aware of it.

The thought makes me want to laugh and scream in equal measure.

Jax groans as I work, and I keep my voice low, steady. "I know. This part sucks. But infection is worse than discomfort, so we're going to push through."

"You're good at this," Kael says quietly, and I can feel his eyes on me.

"I'm good at a lot of things," I say, keeping my tone light. "Most of them involve hurting people, so this is a nice change of pace."

"That's not true."

I glance up at him. His expression is serious, like he's making some kind of statement that matters.

"How would you know?" I ask, turning back to the wound.

"Because I've seen you," he says. "I've been watching—"

"Iris, the infection needs more attention," Maven interrupts smoothly, and I'm pretty sure it's not actually an interruption. I think she's saving me from whatever Kael was about to say.

I'm not sure if I should be grateful or furious.

I focus on the wound, on the careful, methodical work of cleaning away corruption. It's honest work in a way that most things aren't. There's no pretense here, no armor—just damaged tissue and the need to make it right.

"Ready for suturing," Maven says after what feels like both five minutes and five hours.

Kael moves to help position Jax better, and suddenly I'm pressed against his side, both of us leaning over the wound. His arm is against my back—not quite touching, but close enough that I can feel the warmth of him, the solid reality of his presence.

My breath catches.

I force myself to focus on the task, on handing Maven the sutures, on watching her work with the kind of precision that comes from decades of practice. But I'm hyperaware of Kael—of the way his breathing matches mine, of the way his eyes keep sliding toward me when he thinks I'm not looking.

I catch him at it three times.

The third time, I meet his gaze directly, and something electric passes between us. It's the kind of moment that should be a warning. It's the kind of moment that usually precedes disaster.

He doesn't look away.

Neither do I.

"Suture's set," Maven announces, and the moment shatters like glass.

I step back, putting space between us, suddenly needing oxygen that doesn't smell like cedarwood and smoke. My hands are trembling, which is completely unacceptable.

I grip them together.

"Bandaging," Maven says, and I move to help her, grateful for the task, grateful for something concrete to focus on. We work in silence, her movements sure and practiced, mine careful and deliberate.

Jax is already looking better—the infection cleaned, the wound addressed, the future suddenly less dire. It's the kind of work that reminds me why people become healers in the first place. It's about fixing things. About making things whole again.

The irony of that thought isn't lost on me.

"You did well," Maven says as we're cleaning up afterward. Kael is with Jax in the back, making sure the younger man is comfortable. "You have the temperament for this kind of work."

"I have the temperament for a lot of things," I say, keeping my hands busy. "Most of them not particularly helpful to society."

"That's where you're wrong," she says, and there's something in her tone that makes me look up. "You have strength. Real strength. Not the kind that comes from being able to break things, though I suspect you're quite good at that. The kind that comes from surviving."

I don't know what to say to that.

"Kael has that same strength," she continues, moving to organize the used supplies. "But he carries it differently. He wears it like a responsibility. Like something that should be used to protect others."

"Good for him," I say, turning away.

"You could let him protect you, you know."

The words hit like a physical blow.

"I don't need protecting," I say flatly.

"No," Maven agrees. "You've made that abundantly clear. But there's a difference between not needing something and not wanting it. Between self-sufficiency and self-destruction."

I don't respond. Can't respond. Because she's touching on something I've spent years building walls around, and those walls are already showing cracks.

Kael emerges from the back room, and Maven gives me a look that feels entirely too knowing.

"Iris, I need you to come back tomorrow at the same time," she says. "We'll need to check on Jax's progress. And the day after that. And the day after that, until I'm confident the infection is fully cleared."

Which means I'm going to be working in close proximity to Kael for the foreseeable future.

Which is either the best or worst thing that could possibly happen to me.

"Fine," I say, keeping my voice neutral. "Same time tomorrow."

"Excellent," Maven says, and there's definitely amusement in her eyes now. "Kael, walk her out?"

It's not a request.

He nods, and I grab my jacket, suddenly desperate to get out of this space that smells like medicine and cedarwood and everything that's dangerous about wanting something you can't have.

The walk back to my cabin is silent.

Kael matches my pace, and his presence is a constant, warm pressure at my side. The sun is starting to dip toward the horizon, painting the sky in shades of orange and red, and everything feels like it's leading somewhere.

Toward something.

"You were good today," he says finally.

"I know," I reply.

"Maven doesn't give compliments lightly."

"I'm aware."

He's quiet for a moment. We're almost at my cabin now, and I can feel the moment approaching like a predator—the moment where he might say something that I can't deflect or joke away.

"Iris—"

"Thanks for the walk," I say quickly, turning toward my door. "See you tomorrow."

"Wait."

Something in his voice makes me stop. Makes me turn back, even though every instinct I have is screaming at me to run.

He's standing a few feet away, backlit by the dying sun, and he looks like something out of a dream—dangerous and beautiful and entirely too real.

"I need you to know," he says quietly, "that I'm not going to hurt you."

"Everyone hurts everyone," I say. "It's just a matter of whether they do it on purpose."

"Not me," he says, and there's such certainty in his voice that it actually terrifies me. "Never you."

I can't breathe.

"You can't promise that," I say, and my voice sounds small in a way I hate.

"I can," he says. "And I am."

He takes a step toward me, and I should move away. I should put distance between us. I should do literally anything except stand here while he closes the gap between us like he's claiming something that's already his.

"Don't," I whisper.

He stops, respecting the boundary even as his eyes betray how much it costs him.

"Tomorrow," he says. "At the medical quarters. We'll do this again."

"Yes," I say, because I can't say no. Because I don't want to say no.

He nods, like he's confirming something to himself, and then he turns and walks away, leaving me standing in the fading light with my heart in my throat and the scent of cedarwood lingering on my skin like a promise.

Or a threat.

I can't decide which.