"What do you want?" I repeat, cutting to the chase.
"To do a more thorough examination now that your bodyguard isn't here to threaten me with improvised weapons." His tone is mild, but those blue eyes are sharp as a scalpel."The initial treatment was emergency triage. I need to check for internal damage, make sure the repairs are holding."
"No."
The refusal is automatic, instinctive. A thorough examination means removing clothes, means hands on skin, means potential discovery of what I've spent years hiding. The suppressant I wear is good, but not perfect. The prosthetic isn't designed for medical scrutiny.
He sighs, pulling out a tablet. "I'll make a note that you refused additional treatment."
I blink. "That's it? You're not going to force it?"
"We're not in the business of forcing medical treatment on unwilling patients." He taps something on the screen. "Though I should warn you that refusing treatment could lead to complications. Infection, internal bleeding, death. The usual."
"I'll take my chances."
He studies me for a long moment, and I can practically see the gears turning in his head. He knows something's off. Maybe not the specifics, but he's picked up on the inconsistencies. The question is whether he'll push it.
"Your choice," he says finally. "But the offer stands if you change your mind."
The door bursts open before I can respond, and Juniper stumbles in with her arms full of coffee supplies. Not just coffee, but an entire carrier of cups, multiple containers of cream, and what looks like every variety of sugar packet known to man.
"They have the good stuff," she announces, dumping her bounty on the foot of my bed. "Like, actual espresso machine good. And hazelnut creamer. And those little vanilla syrup things that make everything taste like happiness."
I watch her sort through her collection with the intensity of someone performing complex surgery, and something in my chest loosens fractionally. This is Juniper in her element—finding joy in small pleasures even when the world's gone to shit around us.
"You're going to put yourself into a diabetic coma," I observe, watching her dump the fourth sugar packet into a single cup.
"Worth it." She takes a sip and makes a sound that's borderline obscene. "Oh fuck, that's good. Here, I made you one too. Black, like your soul."
The doctor makes a sound that might be a laugh, and I notice the way his eyes track Juniper's movements. Not with the predatory interest I'm used to seeing from alphas, but something softer. Admiration. Fondness.
Absolutely fucking not.
A growl builds in my chest before I can stop it, low and territorial and completely inappropriate for the situation. But the doctor's attention snaps to me, and for a moment, something flickers in his expression. Surprise?
"Sorry," I say, not sorry at all. "Protective instincts. The drugs, probably."
"Understandable." But he's looking at me differently now, like I'm a puzzle he's trying to solve.
Probably wondering why, if I'm so protective of Juniper, I haven't marked her yet.
The door opens again, and the rest of them file in like they've been waiting for an invitation. The mountain of an alpha with a big forked scar all the way down the left side of his face—Bane, I think—takes up position by the door.
"Gang's all here," Juniper mutters into her coffee. "Fantastic."
"You're awake, which means we need to talk," Bane says without preamble. "About who hired you."
"Pass," I say flatly.
"You tried to kill us," he points out, like I might have forgotten. "The least you can do is tell us why."
"Professional courtesy prevents me from discussing client details." The lie rolls off my tongue smooth as silk.
Jackal laughs, the sound sharp as breaking glass. "Professional courtesy. That's rich, coming from someone who was pretending to be a human trafficker."
"Method acting," Juniper pipes up, now on her second cup of coffee. "Felix is very committed to his roles."
The doctor's lips twitch again, and I catch him looking at her with that same soft expression. My hand finds Juniper's wrist, pulling her closer to me on the bed. Mine, the gesture says. Back the fuck off.
