Maya won’t ever be locked in a cage again.
I execute another turn, the movement pulling at my stitches. The pain sharpens, bright and immediate, driving out the whispers of emotion that aren’t mine. Better. I can work with this.
The knife becomes an extension of my arm as I flow into the next sequence, each movement a conversation between blade and air. My body knows these forms better than it knows rest. Even injured, even exhausted, I can still do this. Still be useful. Still protect what matters.
“You’re going to tear your stitches.”
The voice from the doorway doesn’t startle me. I’d sensed Ares’s presence seconds before he spoke, my senses too attuned to danger to miss the sound of his footsteps.
I wait to acknowledge him, completing the sequence with deliberate precision before lowering the knife.
“Good thing we have a medic available,” I say finally, voice rough from disuse. I don’t turn to face him yet, using the moment to regulate my breathing, to push back against the wave of pain threatening to buckle my knees.
“Stitching yourself up is a shit idea.” There’s an edge to Ares’s voice that might be concern, though he’d deny it if accused. “You nearly died once this week. Going for a record?”
I wipe sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand, finally turning to meet his gaze. “Wasn’t talking about me.”
Understanding dawns in his eyes. “Maya? Hate to break it to you, but she hasn’t left her room in days. You might bleed out before she does.”
“Still?”
Ares hesitates, not meeting my gaze. “She’s in heat, I think. A mild one, but still.”
The knife nearly slips from my suddenly nerveless fingers. I set it down carefully on the dresser, using the moment to process this new information. A heat. Now, of all times. When we’re all balanced on a knife’s edge, when the pack bonds are strained to breaking, when nothing is certain except danger.
When I’m too weak to be of any real use.
I close my eyes, lowering the walls I’ve built around my consciousness just enough to reach for the tattered remnants of the bond. And there she is—Maya, her presence a distant flicker of warmth and need. The familiar anger that’s become her constant companion now laced with something else. Something that pulls at instincts I’ve spent a lifetime suppressing.
Longing.
It washes over me in a wave, not entirely my own. The need to comfort, to protect, to claim—all tangled up with the knowledge that I have no right to any of it. That I’m not what she needs. That I never will be.
I allow myself one moment—just one—to let her emotions pull at me. To acknowledge the answering call in my own blood. Then I slam the walls back into place, shutting out everything but the immediate physical reality of my own body.
Fuck, I’m exhausted.
The next fighting stance comes automatically, muscle memory taking over where conscious thought fails. I push harder this time, ignoring the renewed pain that now feels sharp and tearing. If I focus on the physical, I don’t have to think aboutMaya alone in her heat. About Logan gone to meet rebels. About the precarious position we’re all in.
A disgusted sigh cuts through my concentration. Ares pushes off from the doorframe, crossing the room in three long strides. Before I can react, his hands are on me, adjusting my stance with the casual confidence of someone who’s spent years training alongside me.
“You’re favoring your right side,” he says, voice gruff as he nudges my foot into proper position. “Keep training like this, and you’ll build a permanent weakness into your forms.”
“I know what I’m doing.”
“Clearly.” The sarcasm is thick enough to cut with a knife. “That’s why you’re bleeding through your shirt.”
I glance down, surprised to see a small stain of red blooming against the gray fabric. Damn it. I’d been so focused on the pain that I hadn’t noticed when it crossed from useful distraction to actual damage.
“It’s nothing,” I mutter, but I don’t resist when Ares guides me to sit on the edge of the bed. The mattress dips beneath our combined weight, the springs creaking in protest.
“Let me see.” It’s not a request. Ares’s hands are already lifting the hem of my shirt, his touch surprisingly gentle for someone whose knuckles are perpetually bruised from fighting.
I hiss as the fabric pulls away from the wound, dried blood making it stick in places. Ares’s expression doesn’t change as he examines the damage, but his concern is obvious.
“You popped two stitches,” he says after a moment. “Not as bad as it could be, but still fucking stupid.”
I pull back, letting my shirt fall. “It’s fine.”
