“My alpha commands, I obey,” I reply simply. “The Mountain Cats have no interest in war over false accusations. I’ll find your missing traders.”
“Our missing traders,” Elena corrects gently. “This affects all the integrated territories. The route benefits everyone.”
I incline my head slightly, acknowledging the point without agreeing. Integration is still a concept, not a reality I’ve embraced.
“Your partner should be here shortly,” Kael says. “One of our best healers, trained in both traditional and integrated methods.”
Partner. The word sits uneasily. Mountain Cats hunt alone. But I knew this was part of the arrangement for someone to serve as liaison, translator between cultures, and medical support if we find survivors.
The door opens, and she walks in.
The world tilts.
My snow leopard surges forward so hard I have to lock my muscles to keep from moving. The woman freezes mid-step, her eyes going wide as they lock onto mine. Storm-gray, shot through with silver like lightning in dark clouds. The scent hits me a moment later: storm-rain and healing herbs, and underneath something wild, something that calls to every instinct I’ve spent years learning to control.
She stares at me like she’s seeing a ghost. Or worse—like she’s seeing her death.
My leopard doesn’t care about her fear. It’s too busy cataloging everything about her: the way silver threads through her auburn hair like moonlight through clouds, the deceptive delicacy of her build that can’t quite hide the strength beneath, the way she moves when she forces herself to complete that step into the room. She carries herself with control and precision, dangerous in its grace.
Mine, my leopard rumbles, and I have to bite back a growl.
Not mine. Cannot be mine. Mountain Cats mate for life, and that requires absolute certainty from both parties. This woman looks like she’d rather be anywhere else in the world than in this room with me.
“Lyra,” Elena says warmly, breaking the charged silence. “This is Magnus Ironwood, the Mountain Cat tracker. Magnus, this is Lyra Starling, one of our finest healers.”
Lyra. The name settles into my bones like winter settling into stone. She recovers her composure quickly, approaching with professional detachment that doesn’t quite hide the tremor in her hands.
“Mr. Ironwood,” she says, her voice steady despite whatever had shaken her. “I look forward to working with you.”
She doesn’t extend her hand. Neither do I. Neither of us is ready for what touch might bring.
“The medical evaluation,” Elena prompts gently. “Standard procedure before any field assignment.”
Lyra nods, gesturing to an examination area to the side of the main chamber. “If you’ll come with me?”
I follow, hyperaware of every movement she makes. My leopard is practically purring, which is... disturbing. We don’t purr. We’re apex predators, not house cats. But something about this woman has my beast acting like a youngling with his first crush.
“Remove your shirt, please,” she says, her tone clinical.
I comply, pulling the leather and fur over my head in one motion. I don’t miss the way her breath catches slightly, though she covers it by turning to arrange her supplies. When she turns back, her face is a mask.
“I need to do a basic assessment,” she explains. “Check for injuries, conditions that might affect field performance. My hands will glow, it’s part of the diagnostic technique. It shouldn’t hurt.”
“I’m not afraid of a healer’s touch,” I say, perhaps more roughly than intended.
Something flickers in her eyes—knowledge, maybe, or irony. “No, I don’t imagine you’re afraid of much.”
She places her hands on my shoulders, and the world explodes into sensation.
Light flows from her palms, sinking into my skin like winter moonlight made tangible. But it’s more than that. It’s ice calling to storm in a harmony that shouldn’t exist. My frost magic rises to meet her power without my conscious control, creating patterns of frozen light where our energies touch.
She jerks back, but not before I feel her power sink deep, reading my body like a map. When she speaks, her voice is carefully controlled.
“Old separation in your left shoulder, healed but with residual scar tissue. It will limit your range of motion in extreme cold, possibly causing you to favor your right side in combat.” Her eyes don’t meet mine as she continues. “Frostbite damage to three toes on your right foot. These are old, probably from a winter hunt several years ago. Micro-fractures in your left wrist from repetitive magical use, specifically what appears to be tracking sigil work.”
I stare at her. No healer has ever read me that accurately, that quickly. Our clan healers need extensive examination to find old injuries. She found them with a touch that lasted heartbeats.
“I can heal the wrist fractures,” she offers, still not meeting my eyes. “The shoulder would take longer, but I could reduce the scar tissue?—”
