The patient sleeps.

I finish wrapping the compression bandage with mechanical precision, tuck the end under itself, and pretend my hands aren't shaking. The gauze crumples in my fist as I dispose of it, and I have to consciously unclench my jaw before I crack a tooth.

Kael sacrificed his pack's trust for me.

The thought sits in my chest like a stone dropped into still water, sending out ripples that disrupt everything. He lost their trust. Because of me. Because he made a choice that cost him something irreplaceable, and I didn't even know. He carried that weight in silence while I was busy being my usual charming self—all sarcasm and walls and cutting remarks designed to keep people at arm's length.

Which worked perfectly, apparently. Kept him far enough away that I didn't have to face what I felt. What I feel.

I lean against the counter in the infirmary, breathing through my nose like Maven taught me. In for four, hold for four, out for four. The clinical approach to panic. Very practical. Very useless when your entire nervous system is screaming at you to run.

Because that's what I need to do. Run.

The realization settles over me with the weight of inevitability. This thing with Kael—this dangerous, intoxicating thing that makes me want to trust someone for the first time in years—it's a liability. To him. To the pack. I'm a walking reminder of his failure, his fall from grace. Every time he looks at me, he's seeing the cost of whatever misguided loyalty made him choose me over his own people.

I can't do that to him.

My hands are moving before my brain catches up, shoving supplies into the medical kit with more force than necessary. I'll leave tonight. Pack what little I have, disappear into the forest before anyone's awake enough to stop me. Maven can find another apprentice. The pack can find another set of hands to do the work I've been doing. They'll be fine.

Better, probably.

Kael will be fine.

The lie tastes like rust and regret.

I'm halfway through mentally cataloging which supplies I can steal without Maven noticing when the infirmary door opens. I don't even look up, assuming it's the omega checking on her ankle or some other mundane interruption.

"You're leaving."

It's not a question.

Maven stands in the doorway like she owns it, which—fair—she probably does. Her silver-streaked hair catches the low light, and those sharp eyes are fixed on me with the intensity of a hawk spotting movement in tall grass. She's still wearing her healer's tunic, which means she's either been working late or never bothered to change.

I consider lying. It would be the natural choice, the comfortable choice. But something about Maven's expression suggests that lying would be insulting, and I'm not entirely sure she wouldn't physically prevent my departure if she decided I needed to stay.

"Observant," I say instead, turning back to the kit with deliberate casualness. "Did the fact that I'm aggressively packing give it away, or was it the panicked energy radiating off me like a beacon?"

"The fact that you've been staring at that same gauze for three minutes without actually putting it away." Maven moves into the infirmary with the kind of unhurried grace that suggests she has all the time in the world. She closes the door behind her. Locks it.

My pulse does something complicated.

"Look," I start, but she holds up a hand.

"You know about Kael."

Not a question. She knows I know. Which means Kael told her, or she figured it out on her own, or some combination of both. Either way, I'm standing in a locked room with a woman who could probably snap my neck with her pinky finger, and I'm not entirely sure I want to escape.

That's probably a sign I'm losing it.

"Yeah," I say flatly. "I know he threw away his entire life because he felt sorry for a broken reject. Really touching. I'm sure he regrets it constantly."

Maven's expression doesn't change. "Do you really believe that?"

"I believe that I need to leave before I cause him any more damage." The words come out harsh, definitive. "I believe that staying here is selfish and stupid. I believe that the kindest thing I can do for him is disappear."

"You believe a lot of things." Maven moves past me to the shelves, her fingers trailing over bottles of tincture and dried herbs with the familiarity of long practice. "Most of them are bullshit."

I stare at her. "Did you just call me out?"

"I'm calling you out," she confirms, turning to face me. "You're using noble self-sacrifice as an excuse to do what you're best at—running. It's easier than staying. Easier than trusting. Easier than admitting that maybe, just maybe, someone can choose you without it destroying them."

Heat rises in my chest, sharp and defensive. "You don't know anything about me."

"I know you survived a pack rejection that would have broken most people." Maven's voice is steady, measured. "I know you've spent years convinced that you're poison to anyone who gets close. And I know my son well enough to understand that he made his choice with full knowledge of the consequences."

"Then he's an idiot."

"He is," Maven agrees, and the casual agreement catches me off-guard. "He's also brave. And loyal to a fault. And he's spent the last few years drowning in his own isolation because he thought it was the price he had to pay."

I turn away, unable to hold her gaze. "I can't—I can't be what he needs. I can barely be what I need. I'm a liability, and you know it."

"What I know," Maven says quietly, "is that I lost my husband to a rival pack thirty years ago. He was taken in a territorial dispute, and I never got the chance to say goodbye. I never got the chance to tell him that I understood his sacrifice, that I didn't blame him for making the choice he made to protect our people."

My hands still.

"I spent decades angry at him for leaving me. And then I realized I was actually angry at myself for not telling him the truth while I had the chance." Maven moves closer, and I can smell the lavender and sage that always clings to her—grounding, ancient, wise. "I won't watch my son waste away the same way I did. And I won't watch you run just because you're terrified of being loved."

"You don't understand—"

"I understand perfectly." Her voice cuts through my protest like a knife through silk. "You're afraid that if you stay, you'll hurt him. You're afraid that you're not worth the sacrifice he already made. You're afraid that needing someone makes you weak."

I open my mouth to argue, but she continues.

"You're wrong on all counts. But I'm not going to convince you. You're going to have to figure that out for yourself." Maven reaches out and grips my chin, forcing me to meet her eyes. "What I will tell you is this: my son doesn't need you to be perfect. He doesn't need you to be a martyr or a saint or any version of yourself that isn't real. He needs you to stay. He needs you to try."

"And if I fail?"

"Then you fail," Maven says simply. "And he'll still be here. And so will I. That's what family does."

The word hits me like a physical blow.

Family.

I haven't had one of those in so long that I almost forgot what it felt like. The weight of it. The responsibility. The terrifying vulnerability of it.

"I don't know how to do this," I whisper.

"Neither did I," Maven says. "Neither did Kael. But we're figuring it out. You can too."

She releases me and steps back, giving me space. My hands are trembling again, but this time it's not from panic. It's something softer. Something more dangerous.

"If I stay," I say carefully, "I need to maintain distance. From Kael. He needs—"

"Kael needs you to stop making decisions for him." Maven's tone is firm. "He's a grown man. Let him choose what he needs."

"That's not—"

"It is." She moves back to the shelves, her tone shifting to something more practical. "You'll stay. You'll continue your apprenticeship. And you'll stop being a coward about what's happening between you and my son."

"There's nothing—"

"Please." Maven doesn't even turn around. "I'm old, not blind. I can smell the cedarwood and pine smoke from here. It's nauseating."

Despite everything—despite the panic and the guilt and the overwhelming sense of standing at the edge of a cliff—I laugh. It comes out sharp and slightly hysterical, but it's genuine.

"Fine," I say. "I'll stay."

"Good." Maven turns back to me, and there's something almost gentle in her expression. "Now get out of here. You look like you need air."

I don't argue. I leave the infirmary and step out into the night, and the cool air hits my skin like a shock of clarity. The forest is dark and quiet, the kind of quiet that feels alive. I can hear the distant call of a night bird, the rustle of small creatures in the underbrush, the whisper of wind through pine trees.

I walk without direction, letting my feet carry me deeper into the woods. The scent of pine and earth grounds me, reminds me that I'm still here. Still alive. Still capable of being something more than a broken reject running from her own shadow.

The realization doesn't fix anything. It doesn't erase what Kael sacrificed. It doesn't make me suddenly trustworthy or stable or any of the things I'd need to be to deserve what he's offering.

But it's a start.

I'm so lost in my own thoughts that I almost don't notice him until I've literally walked into his chest.

Hands catch me—steady, warm, familiar—and I look up to find Kael towering over me in the darkness, his amber eyes glowing faintly in the low light. He's shirtless, which is either very intentional or he's been running in wolf form. Either way, the sight of all that bare bronze skin is doing something to my already compromised nervous system.

"Jesus," I breathe. "Warning would be nice."

"You were walking directly into the ravine." His voice is low, careful. "Thought I'd intervene."

He's still holding me, his hands spanning my waist, and I can feel the heat of him bleeding into me. The scent of cedarwood and smoke wraps around me like a physical thing, and my body's response is immediate and humiliating. Pulse racing. Breath catching. That familiar pull low in my belly that I've been aggressively denying for weeks.

"I was fine," I lie.

"You were about to walk off a cliff." His hands tighten fractionally. "Iris. Look at me."

I don't want to. Looking at him means acknowledging everything I've been trying to run from. It means admitting that Maven was right, that I'm terrified of being loved, that I want to stay in a way that feels like standing on a frozen lake.

I look at him.

His expression is raw—vulnerable in a way I've never seen before. Like he's been standing out here in the dark, waiting. Hoping. The scar bisecting his right eyebrow catches the faint light, and I have the sudden, overwhelming urge to trace it with my fingers.

I don't.

"Your mom locked me in the infirmary," I say instead. "Very dramatic. Very effective."

"She mentioned you were planning to leave." His jaw tightens. "Were you?"

"Yes."

The honesty hangs between us, heavy and real. I feel him flinch, feel the way his hands want to let go but don't.

"Why?"

"Because you sacrificed everything for me, and I can't—I can't be responsible for destroying you further." The words come out rough, honest in a way I usually avoid. "You deserve someone who isn't fundamentally broken. Someone who doesn't carry the kind of damage I do."

"Iris." He says my name like it means something. Like it's an argument and a prayer and a promise all at once. "You don't get to decide what I deserve. That's my choice to make."

"It's a bad choice."

"Probably." He steps closer, and I'm hyperaware of every point of contact—his hands on my waist, the heat radiating off his chest, the way the scent of him is overwhelming all my other senses. "I'm making it anyway."

My hands come up instinctively, pressing against his chest, and I can feel his heartbeat—fast, strong, alive. "Kael, I'm going to hurt you. It's what I do. I hurt people."

"Then hurt me." His voice is fierce, possessive in a way that should terrify me but doesn't. "But don't do it by leaving. Do it by staying. By being real with me. By letting me choose this."

I should pull away. I should maintain the distance I've been so carefully cultivating. I should do any number of sensible things.

Instead, I tilt my head back and let him see the truth in my eyes.

"I'm terrified," I admit.

"I know."

"I don't know how to trust someone."

"I know."

"I'm going to fuck this up."

"Probably." His hand moves to my face, thumb brushing my cheekbone with devastating gentleness. "But you're going to try. And I'm going to be here. Even when it's hard. Especially when it's hard."

The kiss happens before I can talk myself out of it—his mouth finding mine in the darkness, and it's nothing like I expected. It's not gentle or tentative. It's consuming, possessive, the kind of kiss that tastes like cedarwood and smoke and promises I'm terrified I can't keep.

I kiss him back anyway, my hands fisting in his hair, my body pressing against his like I can somehow merge with him and never have to be alone again. It's desperate and intense and everything I've been denying myself for weeks.

When we finally break apart, I'm trembling.

"Stay," he whispers against my mouth. "Please, Iris. Stay."

"Okay," I breathe. "Okay."

But even as I say it, I see a flash of pale skin and ice-blue eyes in the darkness beyond the trees.

Lucian.

My blood goes cold.

He's been watching us. How long? And more importantly—what is he planning to do about it?