“Standard intake. Just fill in what you can.”
She picks up the pen, writing slow but neat. That’s when I see it.
Sadie Devereaux. Omega. 24 years old.
I file her age away, the same way I do with every patient. I don’t let my eyes linger.
When she passes the clipboard back, I scan it quickly. “Any previous injuries I should be aware of?”
There’s the faintest hesitation. Not long enough to be obvious, but I’ve been reading people in crisis for years, and I catch the beat of it.
“Nothing recent,” she says.
“Medications?”
Her voice stays steady, but there’s a note under it—one I can’t name—that surfaces as she lists them. “Anxiety meds, heat suppressants… and melatonin, sometimes.”
The heat suppressants don’t surprise me, but the way she says it makes something in my gut twist.
I push past it, keeping my tone even. “Alright. Let’s do a full-body exam. I can get one of the female EMTs in here if you’re more comfortable?—”
Her hand shoots out, fingers curling around my forearm. “I’d rather not. Please.”
Her grip is firmer than I expect, but her eyes… there’s something sharp and scared in them.
“I want all of this off the record.”
That gets my full attention. “Off the record?”
She nods once.
I set the clipboard down, leaning a little closer. “Are you really scared of your previous pack?”
Her gaze slides away. “It’s… complicated.”
She shrugs out of her coat, movements careful, deliberate.
The first thing I see is the ink. A phoenix, wings unfurled, its tail feathers curling in intricate detail along the curve of her ribcage, the edge just disappearing under her bra.
But the ink isn’t what stops me cold.
It’s the bruises.
Faded but unmistakable, scattered along her hip bones, across the sides of her thighs, and a cluster along her spine. Not fresh, but healed wrong—like whatever caused them went deep enough to leave their shape in muscle memory.
I force myself to keep my hands steady as I trace the edge of one along her hip. “These aren’t from yesterday.”
“No.”
“You been in another kind of accident?”
Her voice is flat. “No.”
“Then what—” My throat feels dry. I have to swallow before I can say it. “Who did this to you?”
She exhales slowly, like the air’s been trapped for years. “A long time ago. I didn’t heal right.”
I shake my head, palm still hovering over the faded marks. “Sadie, this isn’t?—”
