Page 25 of Ethan
A tingling sensation spread through my fingertips, subtle and insistent, like an unseen thread pulling me toward the source of the injury.
“Is your rib not healed yet?” I asked, my gaze narrowing as the sensation lingered.
Dean shifted uncomfortably, his eyes darting away. “It’s nothing. Just hit something yesterday.”
“Nothing, huh?” I tsked, taking his wrist to guide him to an examination room. He stiffened at the contact, the tension in his arm catching me off guard.
I glanced at him. Why hadn’t he said anything earlier? Why bother showing me a healed papercut but hide this?
“Lie down,” I instructed, gesturing toward the exam table.
“I’m fine,” Dean said, shifting back slightly.
I gave him a look that left no room for argument. “Now.”
Reluctantly, he climbed onto the table, his movements stiff. Slowly, he pulled up his shirt, and I immediately cursed under my breath.
The rib injury I’d treated before had reopened, the skin angry and raw.
Bruises mottled his sides, some fresh, others darkening. Claw marks raked across the side of his torso, crusted with dried blood.
I clenched my jaw, anger flaring hot and fast. “Griffin should have brought you here immediately.”
Dean winced as I touched his side, my fingers careful but firm as I pressed around the wounds.
“He told me to come,” he muttered. “Didn’t see the point. Just a scratch. Really.”
“Some scratch,” I shot back, exhaling hard to calm myself.
My hand hovered over the largest gash, letting the healing flow through me. Warmth spread from my palm, a steady thrum of energy pooling into the wound.
The torn edges began to knit together, the worst of the bleeding stopping almost immediately.
But the deeper tissue resisted, pulling more energy from me until a dull ache crept across my chest.
Large injuries like this always took more out of me, the effort leaving a faint ache in my chest. By the time the wound closed as much as I could manage, sweat prickled at my temple.
I reached for the ointment, smoothing it over the smaller bruises. “Why didn’t you tell me? Or come in yesterday?”
He didn’t answer, just stared past me at the wall, his jaw working, tension bleeding off him in waves.
I rested a hand on his shoulder. “Dean?”
He let out a long breath. “Back in Thornebane… you get hurt, you deal with it. Patch yourself up, keep moving. If you can’t handle it, you hope no one notices. Because if they do?—”
He cut himself off, his throat working. “You don’t show weakness there. Not if you want to survive.”
Something inside me sank. I’d always known Thornebane was rough, but hearing it like that made it more than just fact. It was survival carved into him, sharp as bone.
“So yeah… I didn’t think about coming to you. Not because I didn’t trust you, just that’s not what I do back home.” Dean’s hands curled against the edge of the table. “Like yesterday at Maurice’s cabin. I charged in, didn’t think, just acted. Same instinct. Griffin called me out for it, and he was right. I put him and Maurice at risk.”
I watched him. No cocky grin this time, no smart remark ready on his tongue. Just regret, sitting heavy across his shoulders. It looked strange on him.
“Dean,” I said carefully. “I know you were trying to do the right thing. But rushing in without thinking is dangerous for you and for everyone counting on you. You’ve got to trust yourself enough to pause before you act.”
He gave a short, bitter laugh. “Story of my life, I suppose.”
I almost snapped back at him but stopped. He spoke plainly, and the honesty hit harder than I expected.
