The scent of his blood still lingered on my skin the next morning.
I stood at his narrow pane of window as dawn spilled over the training yard below. Rhys snored in enforced contentment on the cot behind me where I'd lain beside him all night. The angry, raised line of his cut side had vanished overnight, sealed back up by whatever mechanisms lay in werewolf biology, but I could still sense the aftermath of his convalescent pain echoing between us through the bond. The fever had broken, and I shivered despite the heat of the room.
I smelled his scent in mine, warmer somehow, loosening and opening to thread through me. The pack would take notice. And some already had.
I pressed my palms into the cool glass and tried to push the newest shards of recalled memory, the ones that had surfaced
