My arms were shaking long before I reached the clinic.
The problem hadn't just soaked through my clothes; it was practically painting a map of my crimes on the dirt road. Behind me, even drugged to the gills, the Lycan was breathing like he might wake up just to spite me. It was a heavy, wet sound—the kind of sound that warned you the storm wasn't over, it was just catching its breath.
I dragged him the last ten meters, my boots slipping in a slurry of mud and his blood. It was hot. Too hot. Touching his skin was like touching a fever that wanted to fight back. The stink of silver-poison clung to him—sharp, metallic, and carrying that aroma that was not pleasant—and every step we took left a darker, uglier smear on the stone steps.
This is bad. This is "I-should-have-left-him-for-the-vultures" bad.
I kicked the clinic door open with my shoulder. Wood cracked. The lantern on the wall swung wild, throwing jagged shadows that made the room feel like it was closing in on me.
I dumped him onto the examination table.
The heavy wood groaned. It cracked. It didn't break—not yet—but I could hear the fibers screaming under his weight. That should have been my first warning. He wasn't just a patient; he was an earthquake in human skin.
His chest rose hard, breath punching out like it had actual weight. Muscles twitched under skin that couldn't decide what it wanted to be. He was stuck in the middle—not fully wolf, not fully man—just a raw nerve of power and pain. The sedative was fighting him, and from the way his jaw was clenching, the sedative was losing.
I bolted the door. My hands were slick with red. I wiped them on my pants, immediately regretted it, and reached for the leather restraints.
Don't wake up. For the love of everything holy, stay under for five more minutes.
The first strap snapped the second it touched his wrist.
The second didn't even get that far.
His hand came up fast—claws half-formed and gleaming—and the table underneath him practically exploded. Wood splintered into shrapnel. Metal shrieked. The wall behind him cracked like he'd punched a hole through reality itself.
I staggered back, my heart slamming against my ribs so hard it actually hurt.
Shit. He's awake. Or worse—he's dreaming.
He wasn't unconscious. Not really. His eyes snapped open—molten gold, locked onto me, but unfocused. He was in that "Half-Awake" state where only the lizard brain is in charge. He snarled, a sound so raw it felt like it peeled a layer of skin off my face, and lunged.
The distance between us vanished in a blink.
Pain exploded through my shoulder as his claws sliced the air close enough to kiss my skin. I slammed into the medicine cabinet, glass shattering in a chaotic rain around me. Bottles crashed. Something blue and caustic splashed my ankle, burning like hell, but I didn't shift. I didn't run. I didn't even scream.
I just planted my feet and went bone-still.
That was the choice. The only one that didn't end with my head rolling across the floor.
My jaw locked so tight my molars ached. I felt the wolf under my skin surge, begging me to answer his violence with my own. I pushed her back down. Not today, girl.
"Enough," I said.
My voice was flat. Hard. It wasn't loud, but it had the weight of a lead pipe.
He froze.
Not just mid-motion, but mid-instinct. His chest heaved. His shoulders shook. Those black-tipped claws were hovering exactly two inches from my jugular. I could feel the heat radiating off him. He smelled like blood, poison, and something darker—something that made my stomach twist in a way that had absolutely nothing to do with fear.
He stared at me. Really looked.
Something shifted behind the gold. Not clarity, but recognition.
"You..." he growled.
I stepped closer. Stupid? Absolutely. Dangerous? Life-threateningly so. But it was necessary.
My fingers closed around the last syringe on the tray. It was a heavy dose. Risky. Too much and his heart would stop. Too little and he'd finish what he started. My hands were steady, and honestly, that scared me more than the claws.
I pressed the needle into the corded muscle of his neck.
He reacted instantly. Fast. Too fast.
His arm snapped out, and the table finally gave up the ghost. Wood and metal collapsed as he rolled, dragging me down into the wreckage with him. We hit the floor hard. My head rang like a bell. The lantern shattered, and darkness swallowed the room, leaving only the dim moonlight filtering through the cracks.
I felt him above me. Heavy. Pinned.
My vision fuzzed. My chest went tight. This is it. This is how the "Undercover Alpha" dies. On a dekil floor in the middle of nowhere.
His claws hovered again. I could feel the air move as he flexed them.
Then... nothing.
He didn't strike. His breath stuttered, his body shuddering like he'd hit an invisible wall. I was still holding the empty syringe, my thumb pressed against the plunger.
"Stay," I whispered. "Still."
A beat. Then another.
He growled—a frustrated, confused sound—but he stayed. My heart was pounding so hard I was sure he could feel it through the floorboards. His gaze dragged over my face, searching for something. It wasn't predatory anymore. It was curious.
"You're... not human," he said, the words barely more than a rasp.
I didn't answer. I just twisted the syringe free and crawled out from under him before my nerves could catch up with my brain. My legs were trembling, but they held. I grabbed a second lantern and lit it with shaking fingers.
The light revealed the carnage. The clinic was a wreck. The table was firewood. One wall had a crack deep enough to see the trees outside. And there he was—leaning against the debris, blood pulsing from the silver wound in his leg.
He was watching my every move. Tracking me like I was the moon and he was the tide.
"You could have run," he said.
"I didn't," I replied, my voice steadier than I felt.
"That was a mistake."
"Maybe."
I knelt by his leg. Another bad choice in a long list of them. The moment my fingers brushed his skin, his muscles jumped. He sucked in a sharp breath—not of pain, but something... sharper.
I ignored it and dug for the silver.
He hissed, his hand shooting out to grip my wrist. Tight. But not crushing. "Don't."
"I have to," I shot back, meeting his golden stare. "Unless you want to bleed out on my floor and leave me with a very heavy, very hairy corpse to clean up."
He stared at me for a long, agonizing second. Then he let go.
I worked fast. The silver came free with a wet, sickening sound. He bared his teeth but didn't move. I packed the wound, pressing hard to stop the flow. His breathing went ragged, matching mine.
"Why?" he asked.
"Why what?"
"Why help me."
I didn't look up. "Because you're not dead yet. And I hate unfinished business."
"Liar."
I paused, pressing harder on the bandage. He grunted, but his eyes never left me. The silence in the room was heavy, thick with things we weren't saying.
"I don't kill things I don't understand," I said finally.
A huff of breath. Almost a laugh. "You're a dangerous woman, Little Wolf."
"I'm a medic."
"You're both."
The sedative finally hit him for real. His eyelids drooped. His head sagged back against the cracked wall. Half-awake. Still dangerous. But fading.
I backed away slowly, every nerve in my body screaming for distance. The clinic was ruined. Anyone passing by would see the damage, hear the growls, smell the blood. My risk just went through the roof.
He blinked at me, one last time, fighting the sleep. "If I wake up... you won't stop me."
I swallowed hard. "I know."
His gaze softened—just a fraction. Just enough to be deadly. "And you're still here."
"Yes."
That was the last thing I should have admitted. His eyes closed, and as I stood there cleaning his blood off my hands, the weight of it all finally hit me.
I hadn't just brought a Lycan into the village. I'd chosen to keep him. And when his fingers twitched in his sleep—reaching for me, not striking—I realized the worst part wasn't the broken table.
It was the fact that I wasn't scared of him anymore. I was scared of what I'd do to keep him.