She didn't ask questions. Didn't demand explanations. Just started issuing orders with the authority of someone who had earned the right to be obeyed.
"Isolation room three for the alpha — the reinforced one. I want two staff members on the door at all times, rotating shifts. Neal, sedate him again, whatever it takes. The other four go in the east wing with Cal. Keep them together."
Staff members moved to comply. The Healing Center transformed around us — doors opening, equipment appearing,a small army of trained professionals responding to the medicine woman's commands.
Because that's what Rae was. Not just a doctor. Not just an administrator. The medicine woman — a title that carried weight in our world, that meant something beyond bureaucratic authority. She was responsible for the health and wellbeing of every shifter who passed through these doors.
Including five ferals who had never asked to be saved.
I watched them take the alpha away. Even unconscious — Neal had managed to get another dose into him — he radiated danger. The staff members who transported him moved with exaggerated caution, keeping clear of those massive jaws.
Cal led his packmates toward the east wing. They followed him without hesitation — four gaunt shadows trailing after the brother they'd lost years ago. Through our bond, I felt his grief, his guilt, his overwhelming relief.
Home. I brought them home.
It wasn't home. Not really. But it was a start.
"Lumi."
Rae's voice. I turned to find her standing in the center of the lobby, arms crossed, watching me with an expression I couldn't read.
"My office," she said. "Now."
The walk to Rae's office felt longer than it should have.
James came with me. His hand found mine in the corridor, warm and steady, the bond between us humming with shared exhaustion. Neither of us spoke. There wasn't anything to say.
The walls muffled the alarm, reduced it to a distant pulse that was almost easy to ignore. Rae held the door open for us, herexpression unreadable—but her eyes snagged on my arm the moment I stepped into the light.
"Sit," she said. Not a request.
I sat. James lowered himself into the chair beside me, close enough that our shoulders touched.
Rae crossed to me and crouched down, her fingers gentle as she pushed back my sleeve. The gash from the alpha's claws was still seeping—I'd forgotten about it in the chaos, the adrenaline numbing everything below the elbow.
"This needs attention." Her voice was calm, but I caught the tension beneath it. "Hold still."
Her hands settled over the wound. Warmth bloomed under her palms—not heat, exactly, but something deeper. Something that sank into torn muscle and ragged skin and whisperedmend. I watched the edges of the gash draw together, the angry red fading to pink, then pale. The pain didn't disappear so much as recede, like a tide pulling back from shore.
It took less than a minute. When Rae lifted her hands, only a faint scar remained—a thin silver line that would probably fade entirely within a week.
"Thank you," I said quietly.
She didn't acknowledge it. Just straightened, moved behind her desk, and settled into her chair with the weight of someone preparing for a very long conversation.
"Tell me everything."
So I did.
The climb. The plateau. The five ferals we'd found — four empty and docile, one violent and aware. The fight. The bond that had formed without warning. The desperate journey back.
Rae listened without interrupting. Her face revealed nothing, but I could see the tension in her shoulders, the way her fingers pressed against the desk.
When I finished, the silence stretched.
"You understand what you've done," she said finally.
"I saved five lives."
