I knelt down. Took his face in my hands one more time.
"I'm coming back," I said. "You know that, right? I always come back."
He pressed his nose into my palm. Inhaled deeply, like he was memorizing my scent.
Then, slowly, he stepped back.
He was letting me go.
The bond ached with the effort it cost him. But he was doing it anyway.
"Good," I whispered. "That's good. I'll see you tomorrow."
I stood. Walked through the door. Didn't let myself look back until I'd reached the end of the corridor.
When I did, he was still there. Still watching. A dark shape in the doorway of his room, gold eyes tracking my every step.
The bond stretched between us—steady, present, shot through with something that felt almost like hope.
Healing had begun.
It wasn't complete. Might never be complete, not entirely. The man was still buried somewhere inside the wolf, and I didn'tknow if he'd ever find his way out again. Some wounds left scars that didn't fade. Some transformations couldn't be undone.
But he was calmer than yesterday. Calmer than the week before.
And once—just once—he'd been human again.
That had to mean something.
I lifted my hand. A small wave. A promise.
Then I turned and walked toward the exit, toward James waiting in the library and all the ordinary pieces of a life I was slowly learning to live again.
Behind me, North watched until I disappeared from view.
Chapter three
Neal's sleeves were rolled to his elbows.
I noticed that first — the forearms, the way the tendons shifted when he wrote something on his tablet. Then the line of his jaw, tight with concentration. The careful way he held himself, like every muscle was under strict orders to behave.
He was beautiful in a controlled, clinical way. The kind of man who probably didn't know he was beautiful, or pretended not to. Sharp cheekbones. Dark eyes that saw too much. Hands that I'd watched perform precise medical procedures and couldn't stop imagining doing other things entirely.
The bond between us pulsed. Wanting.
I was standing in the doorway of North's room, waiting for the evening chart review. This was part of the routine now — Neal checking vitals, making notes, maintaining the pretense that I was just an intern and he was just my supervisor and neither ofus felt the thread of heat that tightened every time we were in the same room.
He looked up. Our eyes met for exactly one second.
The bond flared — his end and mine, tangled together, demanding acknowledgment.
Then he looked away.
"North's cortisol levels are down twelve percent from last week," he said, crossing to where I stood. His voice was flat. Professional. "Document that in his file. Blood pressure is stable. No signs of distress during the afternoon observation period."
He handed me the chart without looking at me.
Our fingers didn't touch. He made sure of that.
