Page 75 of Heart of Frost and Scars

“See?”

“Arguing is a productive form of communication.” She takes a breath. “As long as there’s respect on both sides, it helps everyone express their differing perspectives and clear up misunderstandings.” She meets Monty’s eyes. “And maybe find one thing we agree on.”

“Was any of that directed at us?” Leo asks me.

“No.” I cross my arms. “That was her passive-aggressive way to keep arguing with him.”

She flips us off.

Monty chuckles.

“Laugh it up, jackass.” She tosses aside the butterfly bandages and snatches the medical kit. “You’re getting stitches.”

16

Kodiak

—

The tension in my chest constricts as I watch the energy slowly drain from Frankie.

She’s been through too much today, yet here she is, stitching the stab wound in Monty’s neck.

Her fingers move with practiced ease, guiding the needle with swift, sure motions. She bends in close, her breathing stable, her focus unshakable. Pulling the wound’s edges together, she places each stitch with a gentle touch.

“I was only a few millimeters off from nicking your carotid artery.” A shiver runs through her, leaving goosebumps on her arms.

“But you didn’t.” Monty angles his head, making the wound more accessible to her. “It’s like some part of you didn’t want to kill me.”

“Monty…” She lines up the next stitch. “No part of me wants to kill you.”

“The letter you wrote to me disagrees.” Eyes closed, jaw clenched in silent endurance, he remains still under her careful ministrations.

An impressive effort, given his apparent aversion to needles.

“I wrote that letter the night Denver…the night he raped Wolf.” Her fingers brush over the edges of his bruised face, lingering on the features that look so much like Wolf, as though she’s imagining him instead of Monty.

“I know.” Monty’s voice cracks. “I’m sorry.”

She blinks, sucks in a shaky breath, and adds another suture.

Despite the conversation and circumstances, there’s undeniable beauty in her dedication. It’s in the way her brow furrows in concentration and the murmur of reassurances she offers Monty as she works.

Flexing my hand, I stare at the scar that runs through it. She didn’t trust me the night Denver stabbed me. She didn’t trust any of us. Rightfully so. Still, she stitched my wound with a kindness I didn’t deserve.

She’s so strong, so capable, so damn caring, even after everything. It’s something I’ve always admired about her, even if it makes me insanely protective.

There’s a raw, unspoken bond between healers and protectors.

She’s a hellion on the outside, full of fire and fight. But beneath the ferocity, she’s a tender-hearted soul, drenched in empathy, her heart forever open, giving away her healing power to anyone in need. She bleeds energy, tangled in the pain and need of others until she’s hollowed out.

If she’s not careful, she’ll lose her life force in that endless give.

That’s why she needs protectors, warriors of her heart, standing guard and warding off the takers who try to steal her. She needs us to be her sanctuary, to give her a place to recharge and breathe life back into her weary soul.

Leo and I stand watch, connected in so many ways, but especially in this. In our admiration and love for her. And in our undying need to keep her safe.

She finishes the final stitch and ties it off with a knot. Leaning back, she exhales slowly and rests her fingers against Monty’s throat as if to reassure herself that he’s okay.

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