“She’s scraped up, wrists bound too tight,” I tell him.“She needs stitches in one spot, I think.”
“I’ll be there in twenty,” he says without hesitation.
I head back inside to see Fern practically licking her bowl clean.
“Help yourself to more,” I say, waving at the stove.
She nods but makes no move to stand and get more food, so I grab the other sandwich and add the rest of the soup to the other bowl.I carry both over to the table and set them in front of her.
“I’ll make more,” I say when she opens her mouth to protest.
She frowns, but doesn’t argue, and I watch as she digs into the sandwich.
Christian arrives as she finishes eating, carrying his bag.Fern eyes him warily.
My bear paws at me, and I try to calm him.
He’s just here to help.
“Christian, this is Fern.Fern, this is the town doctor.He’s going to bandage your wrists and check out that mark on your forehead,” I explain calmly.
Fern relaxes a bit as Christian cleans and bandages her wrists.I hover as he checks her over, scanning her body.She’s a little banged up, her shoulder bruised from hitting the side of the truck, but her wrists are the worst by far.
My bear paces restlessly beneath my skin while Christian cleans, stitches, and wraps her wounds.Every whimper of pain cuts straight through us.
Ours,he growls.Never again.
“That should do it,” Christian says as he finishes packing up.“Call me if you need anything else or if anything changes.In the meantime, you need to rest.”
“I’ll make sure she does,” I say.
Fern rolls her eyes at me.
Christian turns to me on the porch as I walk him out.“Good luck.”
I glare at him as he smirks.“I don’t need luck.Things are going well here.”
“Sure,” he says as he jogs down the porch steps and over to his car.
I watch him leave and go back inside to my mate.She’s still in the kitchen, and I pause as I take her in.She looks smaller somehow.Bandaged.Exhausted.Still standing because of sheer stubborn will.
“I have questions.”
She glances over at me warily.“About what?”
“Come on.”I head down the hall and into the living room.
It takes a moment, but eventually, Fern appears in the doorway.I take a seat on the couch, and she makes her way nimbly over to sit across from me in the armchair.Her eyes dart to the front door, and I know she’s judging the distance, weighing if she could make it outside before I got to her if she had to run.
I don’t tell her that I would be on her before she could even stand from the chair.
“Why don’t you tell me where you’re from?”I ask, deciding to start with something easy.
“Why do you want to know?”
It seems I’m going to have to earn every single piece of information from my mate.“I need to know if someone is going to come looking for you.I need to know so I can keep you safe.”
“That isn’t your responsibility.I can take care of myself,” she argues.
