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"Jesus," she breathes, seeing the full extent of the damage. "You fought all day like this?"

I try a dismissive shrug that sends lightning pain through my shoulder. "Feline biology allows?—"

"For you to be a stubborn idiot, apparently." There's anger in her voice, but not at me—for me. "This goes beyond duty, Fritz. This is fucking self-destruction."

The criticism should offend my alpha pride. Instead, it creates warmth beneath the pain—knowing she cares not just for the commander, not just for the fortress's defense, but for me specifically.

Her hands move across my injuries with careful precision, but there's nothing clinical in her touch. Each contact feels like more than medical necessity—feels like connection. The antiseptic burns, but I keep perfectly still, not wanting to make her job harder.

"This needs the burn salve," she mutters, examining the scorched flesh along my side. "Nyssa gave me something special for dragon fire. It'll hurt like hell going on."

"Do it," I manage, voice steadier now that battle rage has fully faded.

Her fingers scoop the green-tinged paste and apply it to the burned area. Fire ignites beneath my skin, worse than the original injury. My claws gouge deep furrows into the bed, my body going rigid with the effort not to pull away from her touch.

"Sorry," she whispers, real regret in her scent. "Almost done with this part."

I catch her wrist with my least injured hand, stopping her. "Don't apologize for necessary pain."

Her eyes meet mine, something shifting in their depths. "Necessary pain is still pain, Fritz. It's okay to admit that."

The simple statement—permission to be affected rather than stoic—creates cracks in armor I've maintained since my earliest military training. I let go of her wrist, letting her continue while I process this unexpected insight.

Her hands move to the claw wounds across my back, cleaning each with methodical care. The strange purple-black of my blood stains her fingers, so alien against her human skin.

"Your blood's different," she notes, watching it clot with inhuman speed. "Thicker. Almost like oil with how it moves."

"Evolutionary advantage," I explain, grateful for the distraction of talking. "Rapid clotting prevents blood loss during long fights."

"Smart design," she says with a hint of dark humor. "Though clearly not foolproof, given how you look right now."

As she works, her fingers find the older scars beneath fresh wounds. Her touch changes, becomes exploratory, almost reverent. She traces the raised tissue with deliberate care, mapping the history written across my body.

"This one looks nasty," she says softly, following a dramatic scar that curves from shoulder to mid-back. "The dragon commander you mentioned?"

"Yes." The memory flashes—pain, blood, the certainty of death before I managed a killing blow.

Her fingers find another set of scars, three parallel lines identical to those on my face. "Same fight?"

"Same fight," I confirm, surprised by my willingness to share. "I was young. Thought I was invincible."

"Apparently you nearly were." There's something like admiration in her voice.

She continues exploring, each scar prompting questions I find myself answering with unexpected honesty. The intimacy of it—her fingers on my battered body, my willing sharing of battle history—creates heat beneath my skin that has nothing to do with injuries.

"These circular ones?" she asks, tracing burns along my spine.

"Oni weapons," I reply, the words coming easier now. "Superheated metal. Even feline healing can't erase them completely."

Her touch lingers, warm against my skin. "You've survived more than seems possible."

"Had to," I say simply.

Then her scent shifts, subtle but unmistakable to my senses—the warm notes of arousal mixing with concern. She's affected by this contact, by the intimacy of tending my wounds, by thevulnerability I've never shown anyone else. My alpha instincts respond, even through the pain and blood loss.

"Your hands are steady," I observe, my voice dropping lower despite myself. "Most humans would flinch from how different my body is."

"I'm not most humans." Her fingers trace along uninjured fur between wounds, the touch no longer strictly medical. "And you're not the monster I once thought you were."