Chapter 3
Three days after Damon Blackwood crashed into my life, I found myself staring at a package outside my apartment door. No return address, just my name written in elegant script. Inside, wrapped in expensive paper, lay three medical journals—not just any journals, but rare editions containing groundbreaking research on werewolf trauma medicine that I'd been trying to access for months.
A small card accompanied them: "Thought these might interest you. - D"
I stood frozen in my tiny hallway, the journals heavy in my hands. How had he found my address? How did he know about my research interests? I hadn't mentioned them to anyone at the hospital, had deliberately kept my werewolf healing knowledge separate from my human nursing career.
"This is crossing a line," I muttered, but Lyra stirred with pleasure, pushing against my consciousness with more strength than she'd shown in two years.
*He sees us. Values what we love.*
I shoved her down and carried the journals to my kitchen table, determined to return them. Yet my fingers lingered on the cover of the oldest one, tracing the title: "Regenerative Properties in Alpha Lineage Wounds." It contained case studies I'd been trying to access since medical school.
Before I realized what I was doing, I'd settled into my chair and begun reading.
---
"You look different today," Nurse Chen commented as we prepared medications in the trauma unit the following morning. "More... I don't know... alive?"
I nearly dropped the syringe I was holding. "What do you mean?"
She shrugged. "Just an observation. You've always been so... contained. Today you're almost glowing."
I turned away, unsettled by her perception. I'd spent the night absorbed in those journals, my mind racing with new insights and possibilities. For the first time since leaving Silver Crest, I'd felt that spark of intellectual passion that had once defined me.
"Just got good sleep," I lied, checking my watch. "I need to do rounds."
I saved Damon's room for last, steeling myself before entering. He sat propped up against pillows, looking far too powerful for someone who'd nearly died four days ago. Werewolf healing was remarkable, but his recovery bordered on supernatural even by our standards.
"Did you enjoy the journals?" he asked without preamble, those amber eyes tracking my movements as I checked his IV.
"How did you find my address?" I countered, keeping my voice professional.
A small smile played at his lips. "I'm the Alpha King of the Northwest Territories. Finding an address is hardly challenging."
"And my research interests?"
"I had Marcus look into your background." At my sharp look, he added, "Just professional records. Your work on trauma protocols for supernatural beings is impressive, especially for someone so young."
I felt a flush of pride before I could suppress it. No one had acknowledged my research in years. At Silver Crest, Jackson had always dismissed it as a "hobby" that distracted from my duties as his future Luna.
"The journals were unnecessary," I said, checking his bandages with clinical efficiency. "And inappropriate. I'm your doctor, not—"
"My mate?" he finished when I faltered. "We both know that's not true."
I stepped back, maintaining professional distance. "Your wounds are healing well. You should be discharged soon."
"I'm experiencing complications," he stated calmly.
I frowned, checking his chart. "What complications? Your labs are perfect."
"Intermittent chest pain. Possible cardiac involvement." His face remained impassive, but a glint in his eyes betrayed him.
"You're lying," I accused quietly.
"Prove it," he challenged. "Run more tests. Keep me under observation. Unless you're eager to be rid of me?"
We both knew what he was doing. As long as he remained my patient, I couldn't avoid him. Part of me—the rational, self-preserving part—wanted to transfer his care immediately. But another part, the part where Lyra was growing stronger each day, couldn't bring myself to do it.
"Fine. I'll order an echocardiogram," I conceded, making a note in his chart. "But this game can't continue indefinitely."
"It's not a game, Luna," he said softly. "I'm just giving you time to accept what we both already know."
As I turned to leave, he added, "You're extraordinary with your patients. The human woman with the crushed pelvis—you spent an hour with her family yesterday, explaining every detail of her care."
I paused at the door. "You've been watching me."
"Every chance I get," he admitted without shame. "You're a born healer. It's in every gesture, every word you speak to those in your care."
Something warm and dangerous unfurled in my chest at his words. Jackson had seen my healing abilities as useful but ultimately secondary to my role as his Luna. Damon spoke of my work as if it were something precious, something to be admired rather than tolerated.
"Get some rest, Mr. Blackwood," I managed, escaping before he could see how deeply his observation had affected me.
---
That night, I dreamed of running.
Not the frantic, terrified running of my nightmares after the rejection, but joyful, powerful strides through moonlit forest. Lyra was free, her silver-gray fur gleaming as she raced between ancient trees. Beside her ran a massive black wolf with eyes like burning amber.
*Onyx*, I knew without being told. Damon's wolf.
They moved in perfect synchrony, two predators at the height of their power. When they paused at a moonlit clearing, Onyx approached Lyra slowly, respectfully, his massive head lowering to nuzzle at her neck.
*Mine*, he rumbled, the sound vibrating through the dreamscape. *Waited so long for you.*
I woke gasping, my skin feverish and heart racing. For the first time in two years, I could feel Lyra clearly, pressing against the barriers I'd built to contain her, howling for her mate.
*Not real*, I told myself fiercely, pressing my palms against my eyes. *Just stress. Just proximity to another powerful wolf.*
But as dawn broke over Seattle, illuminating the medical journals still spread across my table, I couldn't shake the sensation of Onyx's presence lingering in my mind—patient, powerful, and absolutely certain that I belonged to him.
And worse still, I couldn't ignore the treacherous thought forming in my heart: what if, against all medical knowledge and personal experience, he was right?
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