Nolan’s exam room looked more like a human clinic than anything out of Council nightmares.
White walls. Soft lighting. A cartoon fox sticker peeling off one cabinet door. The only giveaway was the faint hum of wards layered beneath the paint.
My son sat on the padded table swinging his legs, hospital gown crinkling. Wolfie was tucked under one arm, clutched so tight the stuffing might never recover.
“I’ve seen worse,” Nolan said, scanning a handheld over his ankles. “They didn’t go deep. Binding residue, some bruised nerves. Couple days and he’ll forget his toes ever tingled.”
“I won’t,” I said.
Nolan’s mouth twitched. “Mothers rarely do.”
His scent was clean metal and herbs, wolf and human training welded into one. He’d tossed his white coat over a chair; sleeves rolled, dark hair p
