Of Silver, Sin and Bone

Cora Ashworth had exactly three rules for running an illegal apothecary out of a dead man's basement. Rule one: nobody bleeds on the inventory. Rule two: nobody bleeds on the inventory. Rule three, which existed only because people kept breaking rules one and two, was, do not, under any circumstances, let a two-hundred-and-fifty-pound stranger fall through your door at midnight like the universe owes him a favor. The door didn't just open. It detonated. Hinges screamed, splinters sprayed across her worktable, and a man the approximate size of a loaded wagon staggered into the one warm, dry room Cora had spent four years building out of borrowed coin and stubbornness. He hit the floor on one knee, one hand braced against her shelf of ground silverleaf, breathing like he'd run from the bottom of a mountain to the top of it. Which, judging by the state of him, he probably had. Silver wounds. Three of them, carved clean and cauterized ugly along his ribs, still smoking faintly at the edges. Only one thing did that to flesh. "Oh, fantastic," Cora said, already reaching for the mortar she kept under the counter for exactly this kind of emergency. "A shifter. In my shop. Bleeding on my inventory." He didn't answer. He wasn't really looking at her not with his eyes, anyway. His head had gone still and strange, tilted at an angle no exhausted, bleeding man should be able to hold, and his nostrils flared once, twice, like he was trying to solve a very important riddle using only his face. "Excuse me," Cora said. "I know you're dying, but I would appreciate it if you didn't die on the rug. It's the only one I have. " He took a step toward her instead of the door. Not a lunge. Not a threat. Something worse something slow and helpless, like a man wading into water he already knew was too cold, and couldn't stop himself anyway. His pupils had gone wide and black, wolf-bright, and when he spoke his voice came out lower than it had any business being from a throat that raw. "You smell like" He didn't finish. He didn't need to. He leaned in, this mountain of a man with silver poisoning working through his blood and death politely knocking at his door, and pressed his face into the curve of her neck and inhaled like she was the last loaf of bread at the end of the world. Cora froze. Every instinct she'd built over four years of black-market survival the ones that had kept her alive through three raids, one betrayal, and a landlord who tried to charge her extra for "structural damages" she hadn't caused went absolutely, catastrophically silent. Something hot and electric snapped down her spine, starting at the base of her skull and pooling low in her stomach, and for one horrifying second her whole body agreed with him. Yes. Closer. More. Then her brain came back online and reminded her that a strange, half-feral, bleeding Alpha was currently sniffing her throat in her own shop, and that this was, generally speaking, not how business transactions were supposed to go. "Okay," she said, voice climbing an octave. "Personal space. Concept. Look it up." He made a sound against her skin that was not quite a growl and not quite a purr, some confused hybrid of both, and his hand big enough to circle her whole arm came up to brace against the small of her back like he intended to stay there. Permanently. Possibly forever. Cora's eyes landed on the brass mortar sitting exactly where she'd left it, three inches from her hand. She really didn't want to. In her professional opinion, knocking out a wounded man who'd just staggered in bleeding and half out of his mind was not, strictly, medically responsible. He murmured something into her collarbone that sounded suspiciously like mine, and Cora decided medical responsibility could wait. The mortar connected with the side of his skull with a satisfying thock, and two hundred and fifty pounds of Alpha werewolf went down like a felled oak, taking half her shelf of dried chamomile with him on the way. Silence. Cora stood there, mortar still raised, heart absolutely refusing to slow down, and stared at the unconscious stranger currently sprawled face-down across her floor in a spreading pool of blood, silver residue, and crushed chamomile. "Well," she said to the empty room. "That's new." She should call the guard. That was the sane option. Report the injured shifter, collect the finder's fee, go back to bed, forget the way her whole body had lit up like a struck match the second his mouth touched her skin. She should absolutely do that. Instead, Cora knelt beside him, rolled up her sleeves, and got a proper look at the damage. The wounds weren't fresh a day old, maybe two, already trying to close wrong around the silver still lodged in the muscle. Someone had shot him with silver-tipped bolts and left him to either dig them out himself or bleed to death trying. Judging by the crusted mess along his side, he'd chosen a third, worse option: run. "You absolute i***t," she muttered, reaching for her forceps. "Who lets silver sit this long?" He didn't answer, obviously, being unconscious. Which suited her fine. Awake, he'd been all growl and grabbing hands and an inconvenient, overwhelming urge to press his nose into her neck. Unconscious, he was just a patient an extremely large, extremely inconvenient patient, but a patient nonetheless. The first bolt came free with a wet, ugly sound and a hiss of steam where his blood met the metal. He didn't stir. Good. The second one was in deeper, angled up under a rib, and she had to brace her whole weight against him to work it loose. Even unconscious, his skin was furnace-hot under her hands, and every time her fingers brushed bare muscle she felt that same electric hum flare up her arm, small and insistent, like a struck tuning fork. Mate bond, whispered the part of her brain that had read entirely too many scandalous pamphlets under the counter during slow afternoons. Absolutely not, said the rest of her, firmly, twice, just to be sure. The third bolt was the worst of them deep, angry, already threatening infection. She packed the wound with crushed yarrow and a pinch of the good silverbane, the expensive kind she usually reserved for paying customers, and wrapped him in clean linen with the brisk, irritated efficiency of a woman who had absolutely not signed up for this.