Page 7 of Ethan
The shifter’s eyes found mine. He didn’t look guilty or regretful in the slightest for the trouble he’d caused.
Even after a moment, he didn’t look away. I frowned. Between his attack on Griffin and nearly destroying half the pack house, I didn’t have the patience to figure out why.
I turned back to Griffin, trying to shove the knot of frustration in my chest out of the way.
“Hold on,” I muttered. One problem at a time.
Dean Winslow.
Just reading the name made my blood pressure rise.
Dean lay on one of the clinic beds, his shirt discarded, and his chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths.
The faint bruises forming along his ribs and the swelling around his left eye told the story of just how bad the fight had been, and it was clear who lost that fight.
I glanced at the clipboard in my hands, scanning for the injuries Cathy had listed. I exhaled sharply, feeling the weight of the duty pressing on my shoulders.
It’s my job. That’s all this is: heal him and move on.
But the resentment still bubbled under the surface. I didn’t want to help him. Not after what he’d done to Griffin, not after the damage he’d caused.
But this wasn’t about what I wanted. It was about doing what was right for the pack.
Dragging my feet, I approached the bed, setting the clipboard aside. My fingers hovered over the bruised ribs for a moment before I placed my palm gently against his skin.
Closing my eyes, I reached inward, drawing on the familiar energy from my core. It was like pulling from a deep well, the warmth spreading down my arm and into my fingertips.
The energy poured into Dean’s ribs, a golden flow that seeped into the damaged tissue and began to knit the fractures backtogether. I felt the faint tug of resistance—a sign the damage was severe.
Devon would’ve been able to heal him completely, but he was tied up in a meeting with Cooper.
I pushed my frustration aside and focused on stabilizing the worst of the damage, feeling the strain as the energy flowed through me.
My hands moved instinctively, sliding upward to the cut on his lip. The flow of energy followed, stitching the torn skin as I worked.
His lips were rough but full, a detail I shouldn’t have noticed but did. I swallowed hard, pushing down the odd awareness bubbling up.
Next, I placed my hand near his swollen eye, the bruising angry and dark.
My energy flowed again, the golden warmth softening the swelling. I couldn’t stop myself from remembering the other eye I’d caught earlier, a piercing shade of blue.
My gaze flickered to his jawline. Sharp. Defined. My fingers hovered, hesitant, before brushing against his hairline to clear strands of his messy black hair from his forehead.
The strands felt soft against my skin. I froze.
What the hell are you doing?
Snapping myself out of it, I pulled my hand back and turned to the supply tray at the bedside. I grabbed the bandages, thick enough to secure his ribs and hold the mending fractures in place.
Carefully, I wrapped them around his torso, keeping the pressure firm but not tight enough to hurt.
“There,” I muttered, tying off the bandage.
His breathing had evened out, and his body seemed to relax, but I couldn’t say the same for myself.
This wasn’t just about Dean or his reckless fight. It was what he represented. Trouble. Trouble that I didn’t want seeping back into Pecan Pines.
The scars of the past were still there. A lot had changed since Ryder’s rule, but the memories could still hit me if I let them.
