Neal was quiet for a long moment. The bond pulsed between us — his conflict and my desperation, tangled together.
"Even if I wanted to help," he said slowly, "I don't see what I could offer. I'm not a climber. I'm not trained for wilderness rescue. I'm a doctor."
"Exactly." I stepped closer. "We'll need medical support. Someone who knows feral physiology. Someone who can keepthem stable during transport, sedate them safely if needed, handle whatever condition they're in when we find them."
"You're asking me to throw away my career."
"I'm asking you to help me save five lives."
"At what cost?" His voice rose, cracking the professional mask. "My license? My position? The ability to help anyone ever again?"
"Neal—"
"No." He held up a hand. "I can't. There has to be another way. Something that doesn't require—"
"Shut up."
James's voice came from the doorway.
I spun. He was leaning against the frame, cowboy hat tipped low, arms crossed, expression hard. I hadn't heard him approach.
"This isn't your concern," Neal started.
"Shut up and feel your mate."
The words hit like a slap. Neal went rigid.
"You want to talk about your career?" James stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. "Fine. Let's talk. Let's talk about the bond you've been running from for weeks. The one that's eating her alive every time you walk away. The one that's screaming at you right now, telling you she needs you."
"That's not—"
"Your mate needs you." James's voice dropped, low and dangerous. "Yourfuckingmate is standing in front of you, asking for help, and you're worried about paperwork?"
Neal's face had gone pale. The bond between us was pulsing now — his end and mine, impossible to ignore.
"Feel it," James said. "For once in your goddamn life, stop thinking and feel. Her fear. Her determination. The weight of knowing there are people dying because no one will help them."
Neal closed his eyes.
I felt the moment he stopped resisting. The walls he'd built crumbling, just for a second, letting everything through. My exhaustion. My guilt. My bone-deep certainty that this was right, even if it destroyed us all.
When he opened his eyes again, something had changed.
He bowed his head. Nodded once.
"Okay," he said quietly. "What do you need?"
We planned in Neal's office with the door locked and the blinds drawn.
I spread the topographic map across his desk, my fingers finding the familiar contours without thinking. I'd memorized these mountains years ago — every ridge, every valley, every approach route that might get a person up and back alive.
"The northern approach is suicide this time of year," I said, tracing the line I knew by heart. "Avalanche risk is too high. We go around — through the valley here, then up the eastern ridge."
"How many days does that add?" James said.
"Two days tops and it keeps us alive." I tapped the map. "This route has natural windbreaks here and here. Rock formations that provide shelter if a storm hits. And the grade is more manageable for hauling supplies — or unconscious ferals."
Neal leaned closer, studying the path I'd outlined. "You really have been studying this."
