"I'm fine," she insists, but doesn't pull away. Can't. The burn is bad enough that the cold water is probably the only thing keeping the pain manageable.
I keep her hand steady under the flow, my other hand settling on her lower back without thought. Supporting her. A gesture that's pure instinct—protective, nurturing.
The kind of thing I used to do before everything went to hell.
Her jasmine scent wraps around me, stronger now with her this close. Mixed with something else—pain, yes, but underneath...
Arousal.
Fuck.
My body responds immediately. Blood rushing south, cock starting to thicken despite every rational thought screaming at me to stop. This is wrong. She's hurt. She hates us.
But my alpha doesn't care about any of that.
"How long?" she asks, voice tight.
"Few more minutes. Then I'll... I don't know. Find something to wrap it with."
She nods. We stand there in silence broken only by running water and our breathing. I try not to notice how she fits against me—how easy it would be to pull her closer, to turn her around and press her against the sink and—
No.
I force myself to focus on her injury. On being the healer, not the alpha. The gentle one. The one who isn't a complete monster.
Even though we both know that's a lie.
"Okay," I say finally, turning off the water. "Stay here."
I grab the first aid kit from under the sink, set it on the counter. Open it, my hands less steady than I'd like.
"Sit," I gesture to the counter stool.
She obeys, which surprises me. Slides onto the seat with that unconscious grace she has, even exhausted and hurt.
I move between her and the counter, giving myself access to treat her hand. This close, I can see the exhaustion in her eyes.The way she holds herself—tense, ready to bolt, but too tired to maintain the walls she built yesterday.
"This might sting," I warn, finding some kind of ointment in the kit.
She doesn't flinch when I apply it. Just watches me work with those green eyes that have haunted my dreams for months.
I'm gentle. Careful. My hands steady despite the way my pulse is racing. Despite the way her scent is making my mouth water and my cock strain against my sweatpants.
"You're good at this," she says quietly.
I glance up. She's studying my face, expression unreadable.
"Had a lot of practice," I admit. "Taking care of people."
"Your pack?"
The question is neutral, but I hear the subtext. Your pack that kidnapped me. Your pack that's keeping me prisoner.
"Yeah." I focus on wrapping gauze around her palm, trying to remember how I've seen it done. "Among other things."
Silence falls between us. Not comfortable, but not hostile either. Something in between—a strange liminal space where we're just two people in a kitchen at dawn, one of them hurt, the other trying to help.
Even if that help is tainted by everything that came before.
