“He would have done the same.” Rafe's voice was steady despite the pain he had to be in.
The words settled into the clearing like stones into water, and I saw the way the other wolves looked at him. Not with suspicion anymore. With respect. With the kind of grudging acceptance that came from fighting beside someone and watching them bleed for you.
Michael was at my side in seconds, hands gentle on my torn ribs, assessing damage with the kind of practiced efficiencythat came from stitching up wolves for months now. “You need medical attention. All of you.”
“Pack house,” I managed. “Gideon, can you?—”
“Already done.” Golden light pulsed from his hands, not healing exactly but stabilizing. Slowing blood loss. Keeping Jonah from dying before we could get him proper help. “But we need to move. Now.”
Michael's handswere gentle as he cleaned the claw marks across my ribs, his touch careful despite the way his fingers trembled slightly. We were alone in the small medical room off the main hall, just antiseptic and bandages and the smell of blood that was already starting to fade.
“This is going to sting,” he warned, and then pressed alcohol-soaked gauze to the worst of the wounds.
I hissed through my teeth but didn't pull away. The pain was grounding, sharp and immediate, chasing away the lingering adrenaline that made my hands shake.
“You were incredible out there,” I said quietly.
Michael's hands stilled. “I stood behind wards and held a knife I barely know how to use.”
“You stood your ground when corrupted wolves came at the ward-line. You didn't run, didn't panic, didn't freeze. That's more than most humans would do.” I caught his wrist gently, made him look at me. “You were incredible.”
His eyes softened, and he leaned in to kiss me—soft and brief and full of relief that we'd both survived. When he pulled back, his expression was serious.
“Rafe fought well today,” he said carefully.
“Yeah. He did.”
“Come on,” Michael said, finishing with the bandages. “You need food and sleep, in that order.”
“I need to check the perimeter rotations?—”
“Jonah's handling it somehow. Sienna confirmed it ten minutes ago. The pack is secure, Daniel. Let them do their jobs.”
He was right. I hated that he was right.
We made our way to the kitchen where someone had left food out—sandwiches, fruit, coffee that was probably hours old but still drinkable. I ate mechanically, tasting nothing, my mind already spinning through contingencies and backup plans and the growing certainty that we were playing a game where we didn't know all the rules.
Once we were done eating, I pulled him close, pressed my face into the curve of his neck, and breathed him in. Cedar smoke and sawdust and home. The one solid thing in a world that was rapidly fracturing into chaos.
“I can't lose you,” I said roughly. “I can't watch another person I care about get torn apart.”
“Then don't.” His arms wrapped around me, strong and sure. “Don't stand there helpless. Stand beside me. Fight with me. Trust that I'm stronger than you think I am.”
I kissed him because I couldn't not kiss him, because the need to feel him alive and whole was stronger than any rational thought. He opened for me immediately, met me with equal hunger, and for a moment the world narrowed down to just this: his mouth on mine, his hands in my hair, his heartbeat steady and certain against my chest.
When we finally broke apart, breathing hard, his eyes were dark and full of something that looked dangerously like love.
“Stay with me tonight,” I said. “Please.”
“Always,” Michael said, and meant it.
20
BLOOD IN THE FOUNDATION
MICHAEL
Evan stood by the map table with Nate pressed close to his side, their shoulders touching in that unconscious way people do when they're drawing strength from each other. Jonah leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, face stripped of its usual easy humor. Sienna sat rigid in one of the chairs, fingers white-knuckled on the armrests. Luke stood near the cold fireplace, posture military-straight, watching me enter with an expression I couldn't quite read.
