Third Person's POV
Seraphina didn't waste another word. She just got to work.
Mortimer pressed his lips into a thin line, his dark eyes fixed on her, silent for the first time.
As the layers of gauze came off, the white fabric was a bloated, crimson mess.
Without the Alpha healing factor to knit it back together, the wound looked jagged—angry, swollen, and raw.
"The tear is too deep. You need stitches," she said. "I'm going to flush it first. Hold steady."
She tilted the bottle, and the cool Moon-herb wash poured directly into his mangled palm.
Mortimer's Adam's apple bobbed once, a low grunt escaping his throat. Even with the white-hot sting clawing at his nerves, his gaze stayed locked on the woman in front of him.
The calm, clinical energy coming off her fingertips was the only
