SAbrINA
The map was a mosaic of suffering, each pin marking a life disrupted, a family in pain.
I felt responsibility settle across my shoulders like a physical weight.
Logan came back into the house. The cool air that followed him in raised goosebumps along my arms, but it wasn’t the temperature making me shiver.
It was the methodical pattern of the markers, too deliberate to be random.
Someone or something was targeting these people.
My finger traced the clusters of red markers. “These are all shifter households, aren’t they?” My voice remained steady despite the unease coiling in my gut.
Logan leaned against the wall. He’d shifted his weight to his left side again, holding the right side of his body stiffly. I catalogued the details automatically, the pause in his breath when he adjusted his stance, the tightness around his eyes.
I fought the urge to reach for him, to demand he let me treat his pain. The set of his jaw warned me off. Logan Song would rather chew glass than admit weakness.
“Red pins are shifters. Green pins are human,” he confirmed, voice low and gravelly. “They’re all downstream from the Roberts Mine, but only the shifters are getting sick.”
I turned to him, brow furrowed. “Do you think it’s targeting non-humans directly?”
Before he could answer, his phone rang, cutting through the air. Logan’s brows furrowed. “Marshall, what’s wrong?” His face darkened, his jaw tightening. “We’ll be there,” he said before hanging up. “A kid’s collapsed near the valley’s edge. We need to go.”
We moved quickly. Logan’s truck was a sleek black beast with heated seats and custom off-road modifications.
I climbed in, my boots leaving muddy marks on the pristine floor.
Logan growled something about city doctors as he slammed the accelerator.
The engine roared to life, and we bounced through winding mountain dirt roads.
Thick, heavy clouds loomed overhead, signaling a heavy storm coming our way.
His presence overwhelmed the small cab. The leather seats creaked beneath me as we lurched over another bump.
His scent filled the confined space, smoke from the fireplace, pine, leather, and something uniquely wild that made me stir restlessly.
I found myself breathing shallowly, as if taking too much of him in would shatter whatever fragile professional boundary I desperately clung to.
“You’re staring,” he growled, though his eyes remained fixed on the road.
I quickly looked away, as heat blossomed up my neck. “I’m assessing. That’s what doctors do.”
His low huff might have been amusement or irritation, with Logan Song, it was impossible to tell.
He gripped the gearshift, muscles and tendons standing stark beneath his tanned skin.
I bit my tongue against asking him to slow down, not because I feared the reckless speed, but because I recognized the fury driving it.
This wasn’t just about the boy. It was personal.
The Roberts Mine had hurt his people, and Logan Song wasn’t one to forgive.
When we arrived, the scene hit me like a punch to the gut.
Dense pine trees towered around us. A boy no older than ten lay sprawled on the forest ground, his skin pale and slick with sweat.
His chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven gasps.
The air smelled faintly metallic, an acrid scent that turned my stomach.
I dropped to my knees beside him, my hands already moving and checking pulse, temperature, and pupil dilation. His skin was clammy, and his heartbeat was weak.
The boy’s family gathered around, their eyes darting between me and Logan. Their fear and anger at us outsiders warred with their desire to save their child. The mother clutched a tattered shawl, whispering prayers under her breath.
My fingers shook as I unlatched my medical bag. One by one, I catalogued his symptoms and ticked off possibilities. This wasn’t just an illness. It was an attack, a slow poison coursing through his veins.
“He’s in the late stages,” I muttered, more to myself than to anyone there. The vial I pulled out glinted in the dim light.
“What’s that gonna do?” asked the boy’s mother, her eyes wide with desperation.
I stayed focused on the boy’s labored breaths.
The weight of their hope crushed down on me.
“Stabilize him. Maybe.” The word tasted bitter.
I hated maybes, but this was all I had. “It’ll buy us time.
” But even as I said it, I knew it wasn’t enough.
Time was running out for him, for the shifters in this area.
I unsheathed a fresh needle and stuck it into the vial. “You’re not dying on my watch.”
As the needle penetrated his skin, the crowd fell silent. The boy whimpered, then his chest rose and fell in an unsteady rhythm, but it was there. He murmured, a mix of relief and fear, but I didn’t join them. My gaze stayed fixed on my patient, watching for any sign of improvement.
“We need to get him to the clinic. Now.” My voice cut through the noise, sharp and urgent. The boy’s life depended on it.
“Let’s go,” Logan muttered.
As we loaded the boy into the truck, the storm broke, rain pouring down in sheets. The roads quickly flooded, forcing us to seek higher ground away from the main road. Logan cursed before turning onto a hidden dirt road. “I have a cabin nearby.”
The cabin, rustic outside, was anything but inside. The floors were heated, and the warmth radiated upward. A fully stocked gourmet kitchen gleamed, and a wine cellar rivaled a five-star restaurant. I raised an eyebrow. “Roughing it, huh?”
Logan carried the unconscious boy in his arms. “I like my comforts,” he grumbled as he laid the boy down on the only bed in the cabin.
A flicker crossed his eyes, daring me to judge him.
I didn’t. Instead, I took in the leather sofa by the fireplace, the bookshelf stacked with well-thumbed paperbacks, the woodsmoke lingering in the air.
This wasn’t just a cabin but a refuge from prying eyes.
For a moment, I felt like an intruder in his private space.
While Logan built a fire, I tended to the boy, my hands steady despite the chaos. I administered medicine to break his fever, whispering reassurances to the feverish child as I worked.
Once the boy was settled and asleep, Logan and I faced our situation. The cabin felt small, the crackling fire casting flickering shadows on the walls. “You take the couch,” he said gruffly, gesturing to the plush sofa.
I shook my head. “I’m not leaving you to sleep on the floor. We’ll figure something out.” My voice softened. “Besides, I’m not exactly a helpless princess who’s going to complain about a pea.”
Logan glared, but I met his gaze without flinching.
After a tense silence, he relented with a grunt.
We arranged ourselves on opposite sides of the couch, the popping of the flames the only sound between us.
The space between us felt charged with a current that had nothing to do with the storm outside.
Unable to sleep, I broke the silence. “You mentioned Reeve earlier. He’s the only Song who stood by you?”
Logan’s shoulders tensed, but after a moment, he spoke. “My cousin has always been different. He saw through Victoria’s games. When she turned the pack against me, he was the only one who spoke up. It cost him.” His hands clenched. “Exile was the price for both of us.”
Tears prickled my eyes at the raw pain in his voice. I shifted closer, as if my presence could ease his burden. “You didn’t deserve that.”
Logan let out a bitter laugh. “Maybe not. But I couldn’t stay. And now,” he gestured toward the bed. “Now this sickness is spreading, and I can’t stop it.”
I reached out instinctively, my hand brushing his arm. His skin was warm, but his muscles were coiled like a spring. “It’s not your fault, Logan. You’re trying to fix it.”
He turned to look at me, his dark eyes searching mine. For the first time, there was no anger, just exhaustion. Despite his grumpy exterior, he cared deeply, even if he’d never admit it out loud.
We fell into silence again. The storm raged outside without signs of stopping.
Eventually, exhaustion overtook us both.
I woke hours later, curled against Logan’s side, with my head resting on his shoulder.
How did I end up here? After my middle-of-the-night bathroom trip, I must have settled on the wrong side of the couch.
I froze, expecting him to pull away, but he didn’t.
His breathing was steady, and his body warm and solid against mine.
Taking a deep breath, his scent filled my senses.
For a moment, I allowed myself to linger.
The weight of his arm draped loosely over my waist kept me pinned in place.
I could feel his fingers against the edge of my shirt.
My heart thudded with a mix of panic and something softer I wasn’t ready to name.
Carefully, I shifted to look at him. In sleep, his features softened, erasing the usual scowl he wore.
Firelight danced across his face, highlighting his sharp jaw and the faint scar along his cheekbone.
My fingers itched to trace it, to smooth away the pain it represented.
Instead, I closed my eyes again, allowing myself this small moment of closeness.
I recognized something in him. A kindred spirit beneath all that gruffness and growling. Someone who understood what it meant to be an outsider.
This is a job, I reminded myself sternly. Just a job. Don’t get attached.
But even as I thought it, I knew it was too late. Angel Spring was working under my skin, and so was its brooding protector.