Page 7 of Mated Exile

The subtle presence of a calming influence in the room. A small, clear voice whispers in my head:Rest. It will all be okay.

I motion to the doctors, and we move back to the table. My hands go on Finn's uninjured back leg, steadying it so he won't kick or thrash. His skin is hot to the touch, feverish and pained, but he relaxes inch by inch into my grip, as if sedated.

The doctor grabs his broken leg again, glancing once, nervously, towards his head. But Roarke's gaze stays trained on his patient, and bit by bit Finn's muzzle slackens and his neck relaxes, until he drowses almost peacefully on the wooden table. His breathing deepens and slows. In the other room, Kieran puts his head down, his yellow wolf eyes blinking sleepily.

I don't look at Roarke, or tell him what this means. He knows. We both do. Soon he'll have to reckon with himself, his future, and the tangled past he shares with Kieran. For now—there's work to do, and I mind my own business.

Clearing his throat, the doctor tightens his grip. "One. Two. Three..."

His muscles ripple in a savage gesture as he pulls the exposed white bone back beneath skin and fur, then twists it so the ends meet. A scream pierces the air, and the leg in my hand thrashes for a moment, before Finn's body goes limp beneath us. He's mercifully out cold as the doctor manipulates the bone further, until he's satisfied with its position.

While he holds the leg straight, his colleague steps in to splint and wrap the leg, and all is quiet around us. I take a step back, wincing as my own injuries pull, the new skin my werewolf body has created still tender and sore. The doctors finish the splint, and Roarke moves his hands out of Finn's fur, a troubled expression on his face.

Our eyes meet across the table, and he looks away. "I've called Niall. He's putting together a group of trackers to comb the woods for Delilah. If anyone is able to find anything, he'll let me know."

Frustration leaks into my tone as I tell him, "We both know none of the other wolves will be able to find her trail. Finn can, but he's too injured. The only other wolf with a nose good enough is you."

"And I'm healing too," he points out, his hand drifting towards his middle then jerking away again. "As soon as we're all better, we'll go together. I'll lead the group."

I'll lead the group.But not now. Not yet. "Why the delay?" I ask, though I know why.

"Kieran needs help," he says, and I wonder who he's telling, because this isn't news to anyone in the room. It's just not therightkind of help he's talking about. "Let's get him looked at next. I think he may have a vampire claw stuck somewhere in his side."

Watching him return to his best friend's side, I wonder what it is that drags him there no matter what, and why he can't quite seem to give up.

* * *

Half an hour later, the doctors have left and the four of us are gathered around the small kitchen table, mugs of bourbon in front of us courtesy of Cat. She hasn't joined us inside; instead she's standing on the front porch, staring out into the darkness as if her human eyes might see something our wolf senses won't pick up.

Before she went out there, stepping over the ruins of the door Kieran's wolf smashed, I watched her with concern. And her eyes came up to meet mine, her soft voice murmuring, "I know. But I can't stop hoping."

I understand her well. Because the reason I dragged the four of us together at the table is the same reason she stands out there in the dark: we can't give up on Delilah. No matter the odds.

"It's my fault." Kieran's voice is raspy and quiet as he hunches onto his chair and stares brokenly down at his hands. "If I weren't such a fuckup, she'd still be with us."

I can't disagree with that, so I say nothing at all, out of respect for Roarke if not Kieran. Finn, however, is more than willing to chime in with a cheery, "Well, at least you're not completely ignorant. Score one for the coward."

Roarke's mouth thins, and I can almost hear the words before he speaks them. "It's not Kieran's fault." Glancing down and away, I swallow my sigh, then pick up my mug of bourbon and sip at it cautiously. Roarke insists, "It isn't. Just because he's an addict doesn't mean he's to blame foreverything."

Kieran's eyes jerk up to his friend, and his mouth briefly opens, as if to argue with something Roarke just said. I raise a brow at him; he stiffens and goes quiet. I can only imagine what he was about to object to—either the wordaddict,which he sulkily tries to sidestep frequently, or he would take all the blame in a self-loathing cycle.

"The two of you act like his addiction is a moral failing," Roarke says, eyeing me briefly, then Finn more intensely, his gaze sharp and judgmental. "You're not helping Kieran or the pack by treating him poorly. We all know that he wouldn't be the mess that he is today if it weren't for the curse, and what it cost him. If you really wanted him to get better, you'd offer a little support."

Kieran mutters, "I'm doing just fine on my own."

"No, you're not." There's a foundation of authority under Roarke's voice, though his tone is soft, and he sets his loyal gaze at his best friend. "If tonight showed us anything, it's that you need more help and support than you're getting. It's unfair to expect you to muscle through when you're surrounded by judgmental assholes."

Finn starts to open his mouth, but a quelling glance from Roarke shuts it quickly. I feel the ripple of authority in the air, and wonder what's changed to make him suddenly use his alpha skills.

Grudgingly, I admit that he's right, if a little over-forgiving. Kieran can't be expected to break his addiction to vampire venom, bitterness, and feeling sorry for himself unless the pack tries to support him. He has a hole in his middle where his mate used to be—a wound that festers and grows in my sight—and as much as I judge him for not dealing with his burdens productively, I can't say that I'm helping with my judgment.

"Roarke has a point," I tell Finn, who grumbles in my general direction. Turning my gaze to Kieran, I sigh a little. "I can't say that I approve of your actions—I hardly understand most of what motivates you, or why you do the things you do. But we haven't been helpful, and as pack members, we owe that to you. If you ever decide to get clean, and really give it a shot, I'll be there. It's just all this messiness and self-indulgent pity that I can't support."

Kieran eyes each of us in turn. For some reason he seems unhappiest most at Roarke, and I prepare for a round of sulking. This isn't the first time we've tried talking to him about his addiction, or offered him help. It's just the first time that it's happened while he was lying at the very edge of rock bottom.

At least, I hope this is rock bottom for him. I can't imagine how much further into the darkness he could go from here.

"I don't want to be like this," he admits, staring down at the table, his expression morose. "It's just that sometimes the pain is so overwhelming I can't handle it."

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