Ellie burst out the front door, coat hastily thrown over her shoulders and her red hair a fiery banner. She sprinted toward them, her sharp eyes taking in the scene in one comprehensive sweep—the stolen vehicle, Winslet’s blood-soaked front, and the massive, bleeding man slumped in the passenger seat.
“Help me get him inside,” Winslet said, her voice startlingly steady.
Ellie didn’t ask questions. Together, they wrestled Korrak’s dead weight from the car. His bare skin was shockingly cold beneath Winslet’s hands, the sculpted muscle and scars now just physics and vulnerability. His head lolled against her shoulder, a gesture of unconscious trust that nearly broke her.
They staggered under his bulk, a clumsy, desperate procession through the door that Ellie kicked shut behind them, sealing out the creeping dark.
Her former small room was suddenly dwarfed by him. They laid him on her narrow bed, his long legs bent awkwardly and his broad shoulders spanning the mattress. The humble space seemed to bow under the weight of the wounded Alpha. In thestark light, he looked devastatingly human, and that was more frightening than any display of dominance. Power could bleed. Control could be unraveled by a few inches of claw.
Ellie was already in motion, snapping on gloves and assembling antiseptic, sutures, and gauze with a calm efficiency that anchored Winslet.
“Talk to him. Keep pressure here,” Ellie instructed, guiding Winslet’s hand back to the compress. “His healing will kick in, but we need to close this gap first.”
Winslet nodded, her eyes fixed on Korrak’s face. She watched as Ellie cleaned the savage gash, her hands moving with precise, unflinching competence. Each time the needle pierced his skin, Winslet flinched, a sympathetic pain echoing through the muted bond.
“Come on, Alpha,” she murmured, her thumb stroking his cold wrist. “You don’t get to be this dramatic. Sleeping through all the hard work.” Her attempt at levity fell flat, her words thick with emotion.
Ellie worked in focused silence, pulling his skin together. The crimson flow gradually slowed from a well to a seep, then to nothing. When Ellie finally sat back, tying off the last bandage with a firm, final tap, the breath Winslet had been holding exploded from her lungs.
“He’ll be okay,” Ellie stated, pulling off her gloves. “His system’s already warming up. He needs rest, warmth, and probably about three steaks when he wakes.” She gave Winslet a small smile. “He’s stubborn. He’ll fight his way back.”
Winslet barely heard her. She was already pulling blankets from the foot of the bed, swaddling Korrak in layers, tucking the edges around his powerful frame as if she could stitch his safety into the fabric. When she was done, she slid her hand into his, lacing their fingers together. The warmth was returning, a slow, steady pulse against her palm.
Ellie squeezed her shoulder. “I’ll put the kettle on.”
The door clicked shut, leaving Winslet alone with the sound of his deepening breaths. She brought their joined hands to her lips, pressing a kiss on his knuckles.
For twenty solid minutes, Winslet didn’t move. She just stared at his face, at the subtle shift of color returning to his skin, at the steady, deep rhythm of his breathing that had replaced the terrifying shallowness of before. She poured everything she had into the mate bond—a raw, pulsing current of strength and love. She imagined it flowing into him, mending his flesh and reigniting the formidable fire that was his life force.
The fragile thread between them had grown warmer, stronger, steadier with each passing minute, as if her silent vigil was fuel. She was tracing the line of his jaw with her eyes when familiar voices filtered through the closed door.
Her head snapped up. That was her mother’s voice, tight with worry. Her father’s, low and reassuring. A surge of adrenaline, bright and sharp, burned through her exhaustion. She was on her feet and out the door before she could think.
The main room of the outpost was a tableau of battered survival. Her parents stood near the entryway, her mother’s coat torn and her father’s face a map of bruises and dried blood. Her uncle leaned heavily against the wall by the door, his face swollen with one eye nearly shut. Behind them, Kol stood like a grim sentinel, his clothes dark with dirt and blood.
“Mama. Papa,” she choked out.
Then she was moving, crossing the room in three strides and throwing her arms around them both. Her mother’s familiar rosewater scent was buried under smoke and fear, but it was there. Her father’s solid frame trembled slightly as he hugged her back. A sob ripped from Winslet’s throat, the dam of tension she’d been holding for months finally shattering. She cried openly, clutching them, her shoulders shaking.
“You’re safe,” she whispered into her mother’s hair.
“We are, my love,” her mother murmured, her own voice thick with tears.
Ellie was already in motion, her practical nature a balm to the emotional storm. “Alright, everyone sit,” she directed. She herded them toward the worn sofa and chairs. “Kol, the kettle.”
Kol gave a short nod and disappeared into the small kitchen.
Winslet reluctantly let go, her hands fluttering over her parents as Ellie returned with a first aid kit and a tray bearing mugs of strong tea and packets of dried fruit and nuts. “Eat. Drink. You’re in shock,” Ellie ordered, pressing a mug into her father’s shaking hands.
As they ate and drank with the mechanical movements of the deeply traumatized, Ellie got to work. Winslet helped, her hands steadier than she felt. She cleaned the gash on her father’s cheekbone, hissing in sympathy as he winced. Ellie expertly applied butterfly bandages.
“It’ll scar, but it’s clean,” Ellie pronounced.
Her uncle had it worse. Ellie palpated his ribs gently, her expression turning grim. “Two, maybe three cracked. Nothing punctured, but it’s going to hurt like hell for weeks.” She produced an ice pack wrapped in a towel and pressed it into his hands, guiding it to his side. “Hold this there for fifteen minutes.”
Winslet’s gratitude was a physical weight, pressing down on her until she felt she might sink through the floor. They were battered, bruised, terrified—but they were alive. They were free. Bracken was gone. The wave of relief was so profound it made her dizzy.
A pull, subtle but insistent, tugged at her core. The mate bond. Her head turned instinctively toward the bedroom door.
