Lost Russian Luna

Chapter Six

It takes Amelia over twenty minutes to return, arms full of supplies: latex gloves, antiseptic, a notebook, and a ceramic mug filled with water. She flips the deadbolt behind her with a wrist flick, the steel chunk of it louder than my heartbeat. She does not waste time.

“You can get undressed again. We are going to try and clean some of these old wounds and might have to rebreak some of these ribs,” she says. Not unkind, direct, and not a question.

I obey, not pleased at what she is about to do to my body, which is already going numb and clumsy. I dump the fresh oversized clothing, leaving the skin exposed. She stands close enough for me to hear her heartbeat, eyes unblinking, and snaps the gloves on with precision. The cold air needles over my skin, causing goosebumps.

She inspects my scarring over my neck, gently prodding the deepest to the lightest. She traces the edges with her thumb, making notes in her little book. “This was purposeful,” she murmurs. “If you didn’t turn in on time, we would not be speaking right now.”

She continues down my neck to my shoulder and down my left arm, tilts it back and forth, and finds the places where the radius and ulna overlap too tightly. “Broken,” she says, “then set poorly. Healed wrong.” Her gaze flicks up to my face. “Well?”

The question hangs between us, asking if I remember. I do but say nothing. What’s to say, she can tell it was broken, badly, and it healed terribly. This is nothing new, and she might rebreak it to see if it will heal properly.

She ignores my silence and continues through my body. Poking through my other arm, to my ribs, and counting them and poking at each one. “At least three of these have healed wrong. Why haven’t you shifted to heal correctly?”

I stare at the stone lamp, then the ceiling, and then at her. “I don’t,” I finally reply. “It isn’t safe.”

She frowns. “Why not?”

My mouth dries as it did each time I think of shifting. “If I do, they might find me. Other wolves would smell me.”

She stares hard at me, then back to the wounds. She examines the bite pattern on my neck, the way the flesh puckers and knots. “This was a wolf,” she says. “Alpha. And he meant to kill.”

I slammed my eyes from the pain, the memories that played in my mind. Those rose, the ghosts of my past, I couldn’t avoid. The claws, the bloody snow, the screams of my mother, the death, the bitter cold, the silence, the choking, panic, and the hanging over the cliff trying to survive with the Alpha screaming my name.

Amelia continues to move over me efficiently. She checks for everything: fever, blood pressure, and even signs of sepsis. “You don’t have an infection, thankfully,” she announces thinly. “That scarring,” she points to the largest, crossing at my clavicle, “nearly killed you. Whoever did this should be shot.”

I agree but say nothing. What could I say? She was wishing death on a Russian Alpha that would murder us all.

“Eat, you need to gain weight to help with healing and shift soon,” she continues, as if I would follow everything. “I can break the bones into place and have you shift.”

She scribbles more notes, then sits back on the bed, before her hands steeple. She studies me for a few minutes, her green eyes feel older than the forest I miss in Russia.

I want to ask what she is going to do with me, but my mouth is dry and heavy with my tongue. I wanted to know, but my words dried up.

“Come, sit with me,” she says. I sit on the edge, far away from the she-wolf. She pulls an old brick red thermos from her bag, pours liquid into the dark, sharp-smelling lid. “Herbs,” Amelia says. “It will help with the healing within and clean out your system if there is anything lingering within and pain, if you are in any.”

I sniff it, the basil, licorice, and unusual sage hit my nose quickly. There were other herbs I recognized, but the American herbs weren’t my strong suit. I drink it, well-trained to behave. It burns before it soothes down my throat. It takes only a few minutes before my shoulders loosen and I feel warmth spread through my body. It was comforting.

“I am going to crack these ribs back in place before I wrap them, ready?” Amelia asked. I nodded and turned to prepare.

She held my shoulder and cracked several of my ribs, breaking them to shift them back into place. I winced and bit down on my bottom lip to not scream. Not that it would help, but the pain shot through my body, cold and sharp. She takes strips of gauze and pads to the fresh breaks to shift them into place to apply the bandages. “This will hurt for a while,” she says. “But it will heal.”

Amelia glances at the door. The sound of men’s voices echoes faintly from the hallway. “I will tell him,” she says, and her voice drops. “There is no HIPAA within the pack.”

I shudder involuntarily.

She collects her things, wipes her hands, and opens the door. Duncan is waiting. His eyes sweep over me, then Amelia, then back to me.

“Report,” he says.

Amelia does not sugarcoat it. “I fixed the ribs and got a better view of everything else. We can fix most of it, and she needs to eat a lot. The Alpha scarring is extensive. I will get the meal now.”

Duncan’s face goes blank, then tightens at the jaw. “Who?”

Amelia shakes her head. “I don’t know. She needs to shift soon, and I don’t think she has in a while. It will help with the healing process. I have no idea why she hasn’t.”

He doesn’t move, but his eyes narrow. “Is she dangerous?”

Amelia glances at me, then at him. “To herself, maybe. Otherwise, no. I’ve seen spies before. She’s not one. She’s running, not hunting.”

He absorbs this. The silence grows, thick as oil.

Amelia steps in and lowers her voice. “She’s terrified of you.”

Duncan looks at me, then away. “She should be,” he says. Then, softer: “But not for the reasons she thinks.”

Amelia’s hand closes over his wrist, a gesture so brief I almost miss it. “Be gentle. Or you’ll never get her to talk.”

He nods, once, a slow motion that says he’ll try, but he’s not sure he can.

Amelia returns to me, her expression different now—the pity, but not the kind that weakens. “Rest,” she says. “I’ll bring you food in shortly. You’ll need it.”

She closes the door behind her, this time without the lock.

I sit on the bed, hands open, the taste of the tea burning down my throat. I stare at the rock lamp. I listen to the house breathe.

My body aches, and the fresh broken ribs sigh, but my mind is sharp. I replay every word, every gesture, every glance between Amelia and Duncan. I file it away because one day, it will matter.

For now, I sit, and I wait, and I heal. Or I try.