My mind raced through the possibilities, wolfsbane poisoning, maybe a rogue witch’s curse.
The medical professional in me cataloged symptoms and treatments, but something deeper responded to his suffering with unexpected protectiveness.
I wanted to help him, not just as his doctor, but as something I wasn’t ready to name.
I pushed that feeling down, burying it beneath years of clinical detachment.
This was a job, nothing more. The last thing I needed was emotional entanglement with a broken wolf.
His glare could have iced over hell, but something flickered behind it.
“You don’t know what you’re getting into.
” He tossed something at me and I caught it with one hand.
It was a pair of keys. “For the house and the green truck. You can call Stuart to drive you, but I figure you’ll need a way to get around on your own. ”
Then he turned, boots heavy on hardwood. He closed the door behind him and left me with the echo of his warning.
I exhaled, rolling my shoulders as I unlatched my medical bag.
The suite felt too quiet, too pristine, like a stage set for a life Logan didn’t actually live.
Outside the window, Angel Spring sprawled below, streets dotted with flickering porch lights.
A town forgotten by everyone but the man who’d built a fortress above it.
I pulled out my notebook and immediately filled the pages with observations, everything from the tremor in Logan’s right hand, to the way his breath hitched when he thought I wasn’t looking. And that map. Red pins clustered like bloodstains near the creek.
A muffled curse came from the next room. I snapped my head up. Logan’s voice carried through the door. “Not your concern.”
I was halfway to the door before stopping myself. Boundaries, Sabrina. But when I peeked into the hallway, he was gone. Sitting here was doing me no good. It was time to see the clinic that I was hired to run.
The clinic’s door groaned as I shoved it open, the rusty hinges protested like they hadn’t moved in decades, which was probably accurate. Dust particles swirled in slanted sunlight. I coughed, waving a hand, and stepped inside. The air hung thick with mildew and old paper, stale with neglect.
The reception desk was littered with abandoned equipment.
Underneath a thick layer of dust, there was a stethoscope, a cracked blood pressure cuff, and yellowed patient files spilling from a cardboard box.
Walls lined with shelves sagged under more files, the labels faded and peeling.
A phone sat on the desk, the coiled cord tangled, and beside it, an old ledger lay open, the water-stained pages filled with spidery handwriting.
The exam room fared no better. Counters were covered with outdated supplies, glass vials, rusted forceps, and a museum-worthy microscope. Crumpled papers and boxes littered the floor. Glass crunched under my boots. Like stepping into a forgotten world where time stopped and no one cleaned up.
My fingers twitched, phantom blood slick against my palms. I’d left Huntington Harbor to outrun memories, but this place opened a fresh wound. Another pack, another alpha hiding something. Only this time, I wouldn’t let violence win.
Making my way back to the reception area, I moved a box of files, stirring up a cloud of dust. I let out a cough, and as I waved away the dust, a shadow filled the front doorway. I jumped.
The man standing there was broad-shouldered and solid, like he’d spent his life wrestling the land.
He wore a battered cowboy hat shading a sun-weathered face and a red plaid shirt rolled up to reveal muscle-corded forearms. His jeans were faded, boots scuffed, the scent of hay and livestock clinging to him.
“Heard we’ve got a new doc in town,” he said with a low drawl that matched his easy grin. He stepped inside, boots thudding on creaky floorboards, and extended a calloused hand. “Marshall Boone.”
I wiped my palm on my jeans before shaking his hand. His grip was firm but not crushing. “Dr.Sabrina Wu. Guess word travels fast here.”
He let out a soft chest rumbling chuckle.
“Faster than a wildfire in August.” He leaned against the doorframe, his arms crossed as he surveyed the mess critically.
“You’ll need more than a broom and hope to fix this place.
” As he spoke, he rubbed his left forearm absentmindedly, but a quick glance at his skin showed angry red creeping under his sleeve.
When he caught me looking, he rolled his sleeve down with a shrug. “Allergies. Damned pine pollen.”
I grabbed a rag and started scrubbing the reception desk with excessive force. “Good thing I didn’t come for a vacation.”
Marshall’s grin faded. “Logan send you?”
The way he said the name, both warning and prayer, raised the hairs on the back of my neck. This town didn’t just respect Logan. They feared him. Or feared for him. I kept my tone casual. “In a roundabout way.”
He studied me, eyes sharp beneath the brim of his hat. “That man’s got more layers than a damn onion. And most of them sting.”
I tossed the rag aside, meeting his gaze directly. “Good thing I like challenges.”
A slow nod. Then he pushed off the frame, tipping his hat. “Well, Doc, you need supplies or muscle, you can find me at Boone Ranch.”
After Marshall left, I spent the afternoon cleaning up the clinic.
I was elbow-deep in dust, scrubbing with a rag more dirt than fabric, when the door creaked again.
This time, it was an elderly woman, her silver hair braided into a thick plait over one shoulder.
She wore a flowing skirt and shawl embroidered with intricate patterns.
The scent of sage, pine, and smoky incense wafted in with her.
“You must be the new doctor,” she said. Her voice was warm but sharp with an edge that suggested she suffered no fools. She stepped inside gracefully despite her age and surveyed the clinic critically. “Juniper. I’m the town healer.”
“Dr.Sabrina Wu. Pleasure meeting you.” I began to take off my gloves to shake her hand, but Juniper waved dismissively.
Her gaze flicked to the discarded supplies, and she let out a soft tsk. “This place hasn’t seen a proper doctor in years. But I’ve kept the town alive with my knowledge.” She reached into her skirt pocket and pulled out dried herbs, offering them to me. “For the air. Clears dust and bad energy.”
Sage and rosemary filled my nose. “Thank you. I’ve always respected traditional remedies. They’ve saved lives where modern medicine failed.”
Juniper’s eyes softened. She nodded slightly. “You’re not like the others. Most doctors think they know everything. The land has its wisdom, if you’re willing to listen.”
I smiled, tucking the herbs into my pocket. “I’m here to learn as much as heal.”
She studied me, then turned to leave. “You’ll do fine, Doctor. But remember, this town has secrets. Be careful what you unearth.”
Juniper’s words lingered even as she walked out. The door clicked shut, leaving me alone with the weight of what remained unsaid. Secrets. The kind festering in forgotten places, like the dust in this clinic.
I worked until my fingers ached, scrubbing away years of neglect. The sun dipped low, painting walls in gold and shadow, and again, the metallic odor sharpened. What was that?
When the last cabinet gleamed and the floor was spotlessly clean, I stepped outside into cool evening air. The clinic’s sign hung crooked, the black letters faded but legible Angel Spring Medical . I snapped a photo. Proof. A before picture.
I rolled my shoulders, feeling the familiar ache of hard physical labor.
This wasn’t my first rebuilt clinic. During the East Coast Pack Wars, I’d set up emergency stations in abandoned buildings, converting them to trauma centers within hours.
Dean once called me a medical miracle worker, but the truth was simpler.
I was stubborn as hell and refused to let patients down, regardless of circumstances.
My fingers traced my medical bag, the worn leather comforting after years of service.
Inside weren’t just standard tools but specialized instruments designed for shifter physiology.
I had silver-free sutures that wouldn’t burn wolf flesh, tinctures to temporarily slow shifter metabolism during delicate procedures, and painkillers strong enough to drop a human instantly.
Years of research, trial and error, and quiet innovation had made me one of the few doctors truly equipped for shifter medicine.
As I drove back up the mountain toward Logan’s estate, I couldn’t help but think that somewhere in that fortress was an alpha who would rather suffer than admit that he needed help.
My phone buzzed. Dean checking in, no doubt. I ignored it, my gaze fixed on the mansion. Logan Song was hiding something. The frustration radiating from him when I mentioned his injury made that obvious.
A smile tugged at my lips. He was right about one thing. I was diving into troubled waters. But what he didn’t know was that I’d been swimming with sharks my entire career. And unlike most doctors he’d encountered, I wasn’t afraid to bare my own teeth.