Page 116 of Psycho Pack

Everything is so pristine, so perfect.

Untouched by war.

I never knew places like this exist. And judging from the wary way Thane, Whiskey, Wraith, and Valek are glancing around, tense and on edge, I'm not the only one.

A group of attendants materializes from alcoves I hadn't even noticed, their white robes rustling as they bow deeply. They carry stacks of clothing that look softer than anything I've ever touched, and medical supplies that glint with surgical precision.

"Please," one of them says, her voice soft and concerned beneath her veil. "Let us tend to your wounds."

My alphas exchange wary glances. Even after everything we've been through, accepting help from strangers doesn't come easily to any of us. But exhaustion and pain win out over paranoia, and one by one, they allow themselves to be guided to cushioned benches.

I watch as gentle hands begin cleaning and stitching the various cuts and gashes we've accumulated. The attendants work with practiced efficiency, their movements fluid and precise. One of them approaches me with a bowl of warm, herb-scented water and clean cloths.

"May I?" she asks softly.

I nod, though every instinct screams at me to pull away when her fingers brush my skin. She works quickly, cleaning the grime from my face and arms. The sparkling water turns a murky brown. When she urges me to remove my robe, I'm more reluctant. I don't like being naked around strangers.

But my need to wash off and feel clean again outweighs the awkwardness. I shrug out of the robe and let her scrub at me, trying not to think about it too much.

A low growl from Wraith draws my attention. He's pressed himself into a corner, massive frame hunched inward as several attendants hover nearby with medical supplies. A low, continuous rumble vibrates through his chest.

Without thinking, I get up and move to his side.

His blue eyes dart to me.

"It's okay," I murmur, settling onto the bench beside him. My hand finds his arm, feeling the corded muscles bunched beneath his skin. "They just want to help."

Wraith's growl deepens. I stroke his arm soothingly, trying to project calm I don't entirely feel.

"Please, let us at least look at that gash," one of the attendants murmurs, her veil swaying as she gestures to the deep wound in Wraith's side.

I feel Wraith's muscles tense beneath my palm, ready to bolt. His breathing quickens, chest rising and falling in sharp bursts. Is he having flashbacks to being experimented on?

"I'm right here," I whisper, squeezing his arm.

He turns his face away with another growl, but allows the attendant to look at his bloodied wound. She makes a soft sound of concern. "This needs proper cleaning and stitches." She reaches for her supplies, movements careful and precise. "The risk of infection?—"

Wraith flinches when she touches him. I don't blame him. Not after what I now know about his past.

"Shh," I soothe, squeezing his arm. "They're not like the others."

His blue eyes find mine, filled with feral terror I know can boil over into aggression if he's pushed enough. But he doesn't pull away as the attendant begins cleaning the wound with a soft towel that smells of herbs. I can feel him trembling from the exertion of holding still.

"There," the attendant says softly. "Not so bad, is it?"

"Ow! Fuck!" Whiskey's pained bellowing echoes across the guest wing, catching Wraith's attention immediately. The feral alpha's head snaps up and his eyes lock on Whiskey. "Watch it with those needles, would you?"

I glance over to see the huge alpha grimacing on his cushioned bench as an attendant tries to stitch a deep gash on his shoulder. His massive frame dwarfs the poor woman, who somehow maintains her composure despite his constant fidgeting.

"If you would hold still, honored guest, this would be much easier," she says with infinite patience, her veil swaying as she works.

"I am holding still," Whiskey grumbles. "You're stabbing me on purpose."

"Yes, that's the point of stitches," the attendant says dryly. "Perhaps if you talked less, it would be easier for us both."

Valek's harsh laugh drifts from his own bench. "She has your number, oaf."

"Shut the fuck up," Whiskey snaps. "At least I'm not seeing shit."

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