He Cast Off His “Human” Mate. Years Later, She Returns as a Full-Blooded Wolf

Chapter 3 – The Healer’s Den

By the time we reach the low, timber‑framed building at the far edge of the settlement, my wolves are breathing too shallow.

Not from the walk. From the scent.

It spills from the open doorway in waves: sharp alcohol, crushed herbs, iron, fever, wet fur. The smell of a pack coming apart at the seams.

My pack.

“Inside,” Liora says, pushing the door wider with her shoulder.

The room is long and bright, windows thrown open to the afternoon light. Shelves line the walls, heavy with jars and bundles of dried plants. A central table, scrubbed but scarred, takes up most of the space. To the right, two narrow cots. One is empty.

The other holds one of my wolves.

Kerrin lies flat on his back, bare chest damp with sweat, dark hair stuck to his temples. His skin has the wrong sheen, waxy around the mouth, flushed high on the cheekbones. His breath rasps in and out like it has to scrape past barbed wire.

Meren sucks in a breath behind me. “s**t. Kerr…”

Liora crosses to the cot in three quick strides, all business now. Sionne and Tarek fan out as if they’ve done this a hundred times, Sionne going for the water basin, Tarek for a tray of tools and vials.

“Close the door, please,” Elvara murmurs from the far corner, where I hadn’t noticed her. She’s rolling bandages, sleeves pushed up, arms freckled with old ink marks from herbs. “Sickness carries on drafts.”

Jarik steps back, shuts the door with a soft click. The scents intensify, boxing us in.

I move to the side of the cot, fingers curling into my palms to keep from grabbing Kerrin’s hand. His eyes flutter, unfocused, then fix on me for a heartbeat.

“Alpha,” he croaks.

“Don’t talk,” Liora says, not unkindly. She presses two fingers to his throat, counting, eyes half‑lidded. Her other hand rests over his ribs, feeling the rise and fall. “Breathe.”

He tries. Fails. Coughs, the sound wet and wrong, a spray of red flecking his lips.

My wolf snarls, a desperate, useless sound inside my skull.

“What did you give him?” Elvara asks Meren gently, coming to stand opposite Liora.

“Fever tea. Willow. The— the powder from Vorren’s stores.” Meren’s voice shakes. “It helped the first ones. A little.”

“The first ones still died,” I say, rougher than I mean to.

He flinches.

Liora’s gaze flicks up, sharp. “Did you bring any of that powder with you?”

Meren nods, fumbling at the satchel across his chest. “Here.”

She takes the packet, rips it open, brings it to her nose. Sniffs once. Twice. Her whole body goes very still.

“Again,” she says, more to herself than anyone. She inhales deeper, then swears under her breath. “Of course.”

“What?” I demand.

Her jaw tightens. “Later.” She turns back to Kerrin. “Right now, he needs air.”

She bends, ear close to his mouth, then shifts lower, listening over his ribs. As she moves, her hair brushes his shoulder; he relaxes a fraction at her scent, as if his wolf recognizes something solid in the fog.

“He’s fighting on two fronts,” she says, straightening. “Lungs inflamed, yes. Fever, yes. But whatever they gave him”—she lifts the empty packet between two fingers—“is hitting his wolf, too. Like smothering the spirit while the body chokes.”

“That powder came from human doctors,” Jarik says slowly. “They said it would ‘stabilize’ the sick.”

Elvara’s eyes darken. “Stabilize what, exactly?”

My hands flex. “You knew it was human‑made and you still—”

“We were desperate, Riven,” Meren blurts. “You were watching them die. We all were.”

Liora’s voice slices through the rising heat. “Argue later. He doesn’t have that kind of time.”

She moves fast then, gestures sharp. “Sionne, cold cloths. Spine, wrists, ankles. Tarek, fetch fresh water and the blue jar from the second shelf—no, the other second. Yes, that one.”

She mixes two tinctures in a small ceramic cup, motions to Elvara to hold Kerrin’s head while she coaxes the bitter liquid past his lips. He swallows on reflex, throat working.

“What is that?” I ask.

“Something to pull the fever down without crushing his wolf,” she says. “Hopefully.”

“Hopefully?” The word tastes like ash.

She shoots me a look over her shoulder. “I could lie if you’d prefer.”

Kerrin’s breathing hitches, then evens out slightly, still too fast but less ragged. Sweat beads anew along his hairline.

Liora lays her palm flat over his sternum, closing her eyes. For a moment, there’s a hum in the air, so faint I’m not sure I don’t imagine it—like distant bees or the thrum of power under stone.

Her brow creases. She inhales deeply, nostrils flaring.

“What are you doing?” Jarik whispers.

“Listening,” she murmurs. “He’s not just sick. Something’s… off. Like his wolf is trying to rise and keeps slamming into glass.”

Ice slides down my spine. “Can you break it?”

“Maybe.” Her eyes open. They’re darker now, pupils wide. “But if I push too hard, I could shatter more than the glass.”

I hate how much of my next question is plea. “Do it.”

She studies me for a beat. The room holds its breath.

“This might hurt him,” she says quietly. “And if I’m right, this isn’t just about him. Whatever your Council let into your pack is in more than one bloodstream.”

Shame and fury twist together in my gut. “Then start with him.”

Her gaze softens, barely. “I was going to.”

She shifts, planting her feet, both hands now on Kerrin’s chest. Elvara moves to his head, palms cupping his skull.

“Hold his arms,” Liora tells me. “If his wolf surges, he might thrash.”

I grip Kerrin’s forearms, feeling the tremor already starting under his skin. My wolf leans forward, braced.

Liora closes her eyes again and exhales, slow, measured. The air in the room thickens, scents sharpening: pine, smoke, the bitter tang of fear.

She pushes.

Kerrin arches, a hoarse, half‑snarled sound tearing from his throat. The veins in his neck stand out. Heat rolls off him in waves.

“Easy,” Elvara murmurs. “Easy, love.”

“Come on,” Liora whispers, more to the wolf inside him than to his body. “Come up. Don’t fight me. Fight this.”

For a heartbeat, his scent flares—raw wolf, strong and stubborn. Then something else surges against it, that same sour, metallic wrongness, trying to slam him back down.

Liora bares her teeth, eyes still closed, like she’s the one wrestling it. A fine tremor runs through her arms.

“Liora,” I say, because Kerrin’s fingers are digging into my wrists hard enough to bruise. “If this is too—”

“Don’t,” she snaps. “Tell me to stop.”

Our gazes clash over Kerrin’s strained body. Her eyes blaze, gold licking at the edges.

I shut my mouth.

Slowly, slowly, Kerrin’s tension eases. His breath stutters, then steadies, no longer drowning in its own rhythm. The fever‑heat under my hands cools by a fraction.

Liora sags back onto her heels, sweat damp at her temples. Elvara catches her elbow, steadying her.

“That’s one,” Liora says, voice hoarse. “But this—” She lifts the crumpled human packet. “—this is in more than one of your wolves. And I need to know exactly what your Council agreed to before I touch another.”

Her words land heavier than any blow.

Because the rot in my pack isn’t just in their blood.

It’s in our choices.