LOGAN
The scent of rubbing alcohol and the smoky scent of Juniper’s herbal incense hit me when I stepped into the clinic.
The place was unrecognizable. Gone was the dust and decay.
Now, mopped linoleum floors gleamed under bright overhead lights.
The air was thick with the aromas of sage, rosemary, and something woody and medicinal.
Juniper stood behind the reception counter, silver braid draped over one shoulder, hands busy assembling bundles of dried herbs.
A small burner hissed on the countertop, on top of the flame was a glass beaker bubbling with dark, viscous liquid.
Her movements were precise and unhurried.
She looked like a witch brewing a potion in a high school chemistry lab.
The waiting room buzzed with activity. Patients I recognized from around town sat in mismatched chairs, flipping through dog-eared magazines or chatting quietly.
A man with a bandaged hand, a woman cradling a sniffling toddler, and an older gentleman with a cane.
None of them were shifters, just ordinary humans with ordinary ailments.
A strange sight I hadn’t expected. Angel Spring’s clinic hadn’t been a place for humans in years, not since the last doctor left.
But here they were, their presence a quiet testament to Sabrina’s impact already.
She hadn’t just reopened the clinic; she’d made it a place for everyone.
My gaze swept the space. Water-damaged wallpaper peeled in pieces from the walls, and despite Sabrina and Juniper’s efforts, it was impossible to hide the duct tape on the edge of the reception desk.
The vinyl of the waiting room chairs was split, with yellowed foam bulging through the cracks.
My fingers twitched with the urge to pull out my phone and order everything new.
Renovate the building with modern stainless steel and glass, fill the exam rooms with state-of-the-art monitors, an endless supply of sterilized instruments, and one of those ridiculous massage tables for her break room.
The town deserved better. She deserved better.
I mentally cataloged the upgrades I could make.
“Logan Song,” Juniper said without looking up, her voice carrying the weight of someone who’d seen too much and said too little. “You’re not here for tea, are you?”
I grunted, my boots scuffing against the floor as I stepped further inside. “Not unless it’s spiked.”
Her lips twitched, but her hands didn’t stop moving. “You’re in luck. This batch has a kick.” She held up a small vial of the dark liquid, the contents swirling like ink. “For the pain. If you’re brave enough to try it.”
I eyed the vial, my wolf stirring uneasily. Juniper’s remedies were legendary in Angel Spring, but they came with a price. “What’s the catch?”
“No catch,” she said, tone deceptively light. “Just a reminder that healing isn’t always pretty.” She set the vial down and finally looked at me, her gaze sharp enough to cut through steel. “You’ve been carrying that wound long enough. Time to let someone help you.”
My fists bunched, old defensiveness rising like a wall. “I’m fine.”
She snorted, the sound dry and unimpressed.
“Fine men don’t limp into my clinic looking like they’ve been wrestling bears.
” Her eyes flicked to my side, where the scar throbbed beneath my shirt.
The familiar burning sensation radiated outward like acid eating through my flesh, each pulse matching my heartbeat.
I’d grown so accustomed to living with it that sometimes I forgot what it was like not to hurt.
But today was worse. It was a deep, gnawing ache that made my muscles clench involuntarily and cold sweat bead at my temples. “And they don’t smell like pain.”
I didn’t respond, just crossed my arms over my chest and glared at the floor. Juniper had a way of cutting through bullshit like a hot knife through butter, and I wasn’t in the mood for her brand of honesty.
She sighed, her hands stilling for the first time since I’d walked in. “You’re not the only one who’s been hurt, Logan. But you’re the only one who’s too stubborn to admit it.”
Before I could retort, Sabrina’s voice cut through the tension. “Logan. Exam room.”
I turned to see her standing in the doorway, white coat buttoned neatly, stethoscope slung around her neck. She didn’t bother looking up, just gestured for me to follow her with a flick of her hand. “Now.”
Juniper’s chuckle followed me as I walked past her. “Good luck, Doctor. You’ll need it.”
I hesitated, my boots scuffing against the floor as I followed her into the exam room. Her tone brooked no argument, but my pride dug in its heels. “I don’t need—”
“Let me see the injury properly,” she interrupted, voice firm but not unkind. She closed the door behind her and was moved toward me, hands efficient as she prepped supplies on a tray. The glint in her eyes dared me to refuse.
My jaw tightened, but I complied, lowering myself onto the exam table with more stiffness than I’d admit.
As her fingers brushed the hem of my shirt, I flinched.
Her touch was warm and steady, a stark contrast to the cold, clinical hands of most doctors.
It had been years since anyone had touched me without an agenda, without the weight of expectation or judgment.
My wolf growled, restless, but not in the way it usually did when someone got too close.
This was different. Softer. Safer. I hated how much I wanted to lean into it.
“It’s fine,” I muttered, words reflexively defensive.
She didn’t dignify that with a response, just tugged my shirt up, exposing the jagged scar across my ribs.
Her breath hitched audibly, fingers tracing the edges of the wound with a gentleness that belied her no-nonsense demeanor.
“This wasn’t treated right,” she murmured, brow furrowing.
“There’s scar tissue around an abscess. Something is keeping this wound from healing. ”
She snapped on gloves with practiced efficiency. The crinkle of sterile packaging followed as she laid out gauze and a syringe, her movements precise as a surgeon’s. The sharp bite of alcohol cut through the herbal musk as she swabbed the area, her touch clinical now, all business.
Her words cut deeper than the wound itself.
I’d carried this scar like a badge of shame, a reminder of the pack I’d left behind and the family that had turned on me.
But the way she said it, like it wasn’t my fault, like it was something that could be fixed, made my chest ache.
For a moment, I imagined what it would be like to let someone else carry the weight for once.
But the thought was dangerous. Kindness was a trap, a lure that always ended in pain.
I’d learned that lesson the hard way, and I wasn’t about to forget it.
I glared at the ceiling, refusing to meet her gaze.
“Pack justice,” I growled, words bitter on my tongue. “Victoria’s idea of discipline.”
Her fingers stilled, and I felt the shift in the air, her anger sharpening like a blade. “This isn’t justice. It’s cruelty.”
Her anger crashed over me like a wave. I wanted to tell her she was wrong, that I’d earned this, that I’d been the one to challenge Victoria, to walk away.
But the words stuck in my throat. Because for the first time, someone was angry for me, not at me.
It was a foreign feeling I didn’t know how to process.
She reached for the syringe, movements precise as she prepped the area with a local anesthetic. The metallic gleam of the needle set my nerves on edge. “I need to drain the fluid buildup. It’ll hurt.”
I scoffed, the sound harsh in the quiet room. “I’ve had worse.”
As the needle pierced my skin, my vision blurred, reality fracturing around me.
Suddenly, I was back in that forest clearing, surrounded by towering trees with faint glimpses of the moon through the canopy.
The circle of wolves closed in, their eyes gleaming with hunger and anticipation.
The metallic scent of blood filled my nostrils, my blood, as Victoria’s claws ripped through my side.
I felt again that horrific moment when she twisted, injecting something that burned worse than the wound itself.
Her voice cut through the memory, cold and venomous.
“You challenge me, you pay the price.” Pack justice, she’d called it.
I called it what it was. Torture. My side burned now as if her fangs were sinking into me all over again, the poison reawakening with each heartbeat.
I clenched my eyes shut, trying to block out the memory. The betrayal, the pain, the way Victoria’s voice had sliced through the chaos like a blade. I’d been alone then, and I’d been alone ever since. But Sabrina’s hand on my shoulder pulled me back to the present.
“Breathe.” Her voice was steady, calm, like she’d done this a hundred times before. And maybe she had. But it didn’t feel routine. It felt personal.
I realized I gripped the exam table so hard that the steel deflected beneath my fingers.
I forced my fingers to unclench, the tension in my muscles easing under her touch.
She held up a vial of murky fluid, her expression darkening as she examined it.
“This isn’t a normal infection. There’s an unknown compound here, almost like silver, but not quite.
” Her eyes met mine, sharp and unyielding. “They poisoned you.”