“How’s the wound?” I ask, nodding toward her side.
“Healing, I think.”
“Good.” I move toward the bed where she’s resting. “Let me check your wounds before I make dinner. Make sure the infection hasn’t returned.”
She nods, shifting to give me better access as I settle on the edge of the narrow mattress.
My wolf stirs beneath my skin, pleased by her nearness. Three years of isolation have left me starved for physical contact.
“This might be tender,” I warn, gently lifting the edge of her makeshift bandage.
The wound has healed significantly—no longer the angry red of infection, but a healthy pink. It seems that we might make it out of this after all.
I reach for the small pot of healing salve I’d made from herbs, warming it between my palms. The ritual is familiar now—I’ve done this dozens of times over the past few days—but something feels different tonight. Maybe it’s because she’s fully conscious, fully present, instead of lost in fever dreams.
“How does that feel?” I ask, my voice rougher than intended as I smooth the balm over her skin.
“Better.” I notice the way her muscles tense as I brush her skin.
I work methodically, my fingers tracing the edges of the healing wound, making sure the salve covers every inch. Her skin is impossibly soft beneath my touch, warm and alive in ways that make my chest tight. I’ve touched her before, but this is different. She’s aware of every brush of my fingers, and I’m aware of her awareness.
The silence stretches between us, broken only by the sound of our breathing. Mine is steady but deliberate, controlled. Lithia’s is shallower, with the faintest catch.
I should be clinical about this. Professional. But the way she’s looking at me—those pale blue eyes following my every movement—makes it impossible to pretend this is just wound care.
When I move to check the bruising along her neck, I have to lean closer. The angle puts my face inches from hers, close enough to see the tiny scar that cuts through her left eyebrow, close enough to catch the subtle scent that’s uniquely her beneath the herbs and healing salves.
My knuckles brush against the smooth expanse of her abdomen as I work, and she inhales sharply—a soft gasp that has nothing to do with discomfort. The sound goes straight through me, and I watch, fascinated, as goosebumps ripple across her skin in the wake of my touch.
Time seems to slow. I’m hyperaware of everything—the way her lips part slightly, the rapid flutter of her pulse at the base of her throat, the way her fingers curl into the roughblanket beneath her. The cabin feels smaller, the air thicker, charged with an emotion I don’t dare name.
My gaze flies up to meet hers, and what I see there makes my breath catch. There’s no mistaking the heat in her eyes or the way her pupils have dilated. She’s as affected by this as I am, and the knowledge sends fire racing through my veins.
“Kier,” she whispers, my name barely a breath.
The sound of it—soft, needy, uncertain—nearly undoes me. I can see the questions in her eyes, the same confusion I’m feeling.
I’m leaning closer without realizing it, drawn by something primal and undeniable. Her scent surrounds me, making my wolf pace restlessly beneath my skin. Just a few more inches and I could taste her, could finally discover if her lips are as soft as they look.
Her breathing hitches, and I can tell she’s thinking the same thing. The space between us feels electric, crackling with tension. All I’d have to do is close the distance, and I could finally give in to the pull that’s been driving me mad.
But then I catch sight of the silver cuffs still burning against her wrists, notice the slight pallor that speaks of recent illness, and remember how fragile she felt in my arms when the fever had her in its grip.
Reality crashes back like a bucket of ice water. She’s injured. Recovering. Still weak from infection and silver poisoning. And here I am, taking advantage of her vulnerability, letting my own desperate loneliness cloud my judgment.
What kind of wolf does that make me? What kind of protector puts his own desires above her wellbeing?
The thought is enough to shatter the spell completely. I stand abruptly, putting distance between us before I do something we’re both not ready for—something she might regret when she’s thinking clearly again.
I clear my throat. “We should be able to move in a few days, if you keep improving at this rate.”
I don’t look back to see her reaction, don’t trust myself to maintain this distance if I see disappointment or apathy in her eyes.
“I guess. If we’re not found before then.”
I nod, acknowledging the unspoken concern that hangs between us. “I’ll scout further tomorrow, make sure we truly are alone out here.”
“Be careful,” she says. “We don’t know who or what might be searching for us.”
