"Your bandages need checking," I say.
"They're fine."
"You popped three stitches this morning after a night of combat. They are not fine." I catch his arm at the elbow and pull him to a stop. "Give me two minutes to check them before you go anywhere else."
His eyes remain fixed on me for what seems like forever, then changes direction toward his quarters.
I make him take his shirt off and check his shoulder bandage. It’s shifted and the fabric of his shirt chafed against the stitches. He stands with silent patience as I check the other bandages and fix some of the fasteners to keep them in place.
"The flank needs pressure if you're running," I say, working the tape. "You know that."
"Yes, I do."
"Then don't run unless you have to."
"Noted."
I smooth the last edge down and step back. He reaches for his shirt, and I drag my eyes over him and just look at him— the scar through the brow, the new bandaging layered over old injury, the firm, sculpted shape of his muscular chest. The mate bond sits warm and persistent between us, and it is doing nothing helpful for my ability to think clearly about tactics.
"I'll walk you to your room," he says. “It’ll be a busy day tomorrow.”
"You don't have to?—"
"I'll walk you to your room," he says again, and puts his shirt on.
My quarters are on the second floor of the east wing, and we reach them without running into anyone, because the pack members have their assignments to carry out. The whole mansion is quiet.
Alden stops at the door. "I'll stay in the hall tonight."
"You'll do what?"
"Until the perimeter teams are in position and the scouts confirm the convoy is holding," he says. "I'm not leaving this corridor."
I look at him standing in the hallway with his shoulder freshly bandaged and two hours of sleep behind him at best. "You're going to stand in the hallway all night?"
"Yes."
"Instead of sleeping?"
"I'll rest."
"Against a wall?" I ask.
"I've slept in worse places." He shrugs his injured shoulder and winces.
I push the door open and take his arm. "Get in here."
He doesn't move. "Cassidy?—"
"You can protect me just as well from inside the room," I say. "Better, actually, since you'll be conscious when morningcomes." I pull, and after a moment of resistance he follows me in and I close the door behind us.
He stays near the door while I let my hair down and swap my jacket and shirt for a tank top for bed, keeping my back to him. Alden’s eyes follow my every move, and it feels like he has something to say.
“What’s on your mind? I can hear you thinking,” I say,
"If something goes wrong tomorrow…" he says.
"It won't."
