Page 16 of Claimed By the Wolf Heir

Eirik pushes the pace, the urgency overriding the pain. The stride that was careful and compensating on the upper trail lengthens into something closer to a ground-covering lope. For a stretch he's ahead of me, moving through the snow with the focused momentum of a wolf who has decided that speed matters more than the cost.

He keeps his breathing controlled, a wolf managing his output, but the control doesn't hold. By the time we've covered half the distance through the trees, the lope has shortened to a walk. The walk has started listing, and he's leaning onto my shoulder with every uneven step. The color in his face has changed toward the grey that tells me his body is spending reserves it doesn't have.

"We could cover this ground faster if we ran it on four legs." He drops the suggestion between footfalls, practical and direct. "Both of us. Wolves move faster in snow than humans, and the scent range is broader. I'd know if they were close before they knew we were moving."

"You're not shifting." The authority in my voice is genuine even if the reason behind it isn't. "Your deltoid hasn't sealed. I told you last night what would happen if you transformed before the tissue knits, and nothing about that has changed. We walk."

"Fine. My shoulder, your call." He accepts the prohibition with minimal cooperation, acknowledging the healer outranks him on medical ground. Then he turns his head and looks at me with a directness that has nothing to do with his deltoid. "What about you?"

"Meaning?"

"You could reach the fortress in a fraction of the time on four legs. Run ahead, bring back a patrol, and I'll manage the trail." His tone is level, reasonable, and the reasonableness is worse than a challenge because it leaves no room for deflection. "You haven't shifted once since I've been here, Signe. Not to scout, not to scent the perimeter, not even when the probe happened. I came back through the doorway, and you were standing exactly where I'd left you. In skin."

The observation lands with the precision of a suture through healthy tissue: clean, accurate, and impossible to pull out without tearing something.

"I don't leave patients on a mountain with scouts in the trees." The deflection is adequate. Not good. The lies I tell about herbs and topical antiseptics are sharper than this, and the deterioration tells me more than I want it to.

"That's not what I asked."

"It's what I answered."

The silence that follows has teeth. He watches me with the unhurried attention of a wolf who has caught a scent he can't identify and has decided that patience will teach him more than pressure.

He won't push again today. He doesn't need to. The gap between my answer and his question is wide enough to hold everything I'm not telling him, and he'll read every silence until he finds what I'm hiding.

The truth sits in the space between my ribs, held there by the same discipline that holds the braid in my hair and the steadiness in my hands. The suppressant operates on human biochemistry only. In wolf form, those receptors don't exist, and my wolf's glands would broadcast the omega frequency to every nose in range before the mist finished forming. If I allow the silvery mist, every wolf within scenting distance learns what the Northern Pack's healer has been hiding since she was a girl.

I can't run as a wolf. I haven't run as a wolf in years, and the knowing has been so constant for so long that it registers the same way my own pulse registers: present, unremarkable, invisible.

Today it isn't invisible. Today the ache has claws.

I watch Eirik move through the snow ahead of me, his body compensating for the wounds with the ease of a wolf who grew up in terrain like this, and my wolf throws herself against the wall the suppressant maintains.

The response isn't a stir. It isn't the low pressure I've been managing since the cottage. It's a full-bodied lunge that begins in my legs and ends in the hollow of my throat, every muscle built for four-legged flight screaming for the transformation I've denied them since girlhood.

The ache is specific and savage: the hamstrings that would lengthen, the spine that would drop and flex, the lungs that would expand past their human capacity and flood with cold air carrying every scent signature on the mountain. My wolf wants this slope. My wolf wants the snow under her paws and the wind stripping everything down to instinct and speed, and the wanting is so loud that for three strides I can't hear anything else.

I've given this up along with the humming and the laughter, the spontaneity and the warmth that the suppressant flattens into the same smooth, useful, unbearable competence I've been offering the world for years.

The formula didn't just take the designation. It took the wolf. And the wolf has been getting louder since a packless alpha collapsed against my door and gave her something to howl for.

I keep walking. The trail descends through older pines, their trunks wide enough to provide genuine cover. Through a gap in the canopy, the fortress comes into view: stone walls, the watchtower, the faint column of smoke from the great hall's chimney. The sight has always meant the same thing to me: safety, structure, the place where I'm useful and respected and never, not once, known.

I stop at the last bend before the fortress gates come into view. Eirik stops beside me. He watches while I tighten the braid, checking for loose strands with fingers that find and correct every imperfection.

I straighten the collar of my tunic. I square my shoulders. I run my hands down the front of my clothing, smoothing the fabric, eliminating the evidence of a trail that mattered and a cottage that held two people's warmth.

The woman who walks through the fortress gates is the pack healer. She's been the pack healer for years, and she doesn't arrive with loose hair and melting snow and the residual scent of a packless alpha embedded in every fold of her clothing. She arrives with composure and purpose and a face that communicates competence and nothing else.

The transformation is a performance I've given so many times that the line between the mask and the woman has blurred past the point where I can locate it without looking.

"Which one is you?"

He doesn't soften the question. Doesn't drop his voice or wrap the observation in the warmth he uses to make his directness feel like generosity.

The question lands flat and clean, and the accuracy of it is worse than the asking because he isn't guessing. He watched me pack myself away the same way I packed the records into the oilskin, and he's naming what he saw without flinching.

He's the most dangerous wolf I've ever treated, because he sees what he sees and says what he sees and doesn't understand why anyone would choose to live differently.