"Hold on, love," Ambrose says. "We're almost there."

He reaches back to stroke my fur where I lie on the back seat, and as I feel the car swerve I wish I were in human form and could tell him to keep his eyes on the road. At the moment, all I can manage is a whine and a soft thump of my tail.

He'd wrapped me in the old blanket I kept back here for Dougal to lie on, and I feel I've come full circle in a bizarre, Mad Hatter's tea party kind of way.

I'd run away to Spring Lakes after being hurt by Thom and arrived with an injured dog in the back seat of my car, which I'd then taken to a vet, with whom I'd fallen in love. Then I'd been hurt again, run away again, encountered Thom again, and now I was the injured dog, and the vet was driving, and he was taking me home.

I'd laugh at the absurdity of it, if I could.

Instead, I close my eyes, wondering if maybe this time I can stop running. Maybe this time I can belong, and be loved. Maybe this time I can stay.

Ambrose still has a hell of a lot of explaining to do, and I haven't forgiven him yet for the pain he's caused me, but it's clear he's suffered at least as much as I have for his misguided attempt to keep me safe.

He keeps talking to me as he drives, reaching back to touch me now and then and telling me to stay awake.

I try, but I guess I drift off for a bit anyway, because the next thing I know he's pulling me from the car and lifting me again. He's parked near the garage, the door of which he'd left open, and he heads for the white work van he uses for mobile vet visits.

Again, if I could laugh, I would. Being taken to a vet while in wolf-form is a sort of joke-nightmare among Wolves. All sorts of bad things could happen—from having your temperature taken to being accidentally euthanized—but if there's one vet I trust to take care of me, it's Dr. Ambrose Thorne.

He struggles a bit to get the back doors of his van open, but manages it and then climbs inside, laying me on a long, stainless-steel table that folds down from the wall.

"Alright, love—just a bit longer," he says, smoothing trembling hands over my face.

I trust him, but I do hope he gets the shaking under control before he attempts anything too delicate.

"Just a bit longer," he murmurs again, and busies himself collecting whatever supplies and things he needs, arranging them around me where I lie. "Just have to get that bullet out, and then you can Shift, and I'll take care of the rest, aye?"

I catch sight of the blanket as he pulls it away and sets it aside and see that it's stained with blood. A lot of blood, which explains why I'm so tired and dizzy and cold. If only I were like Dane or Freya, I'd be half-healed on my own already—up again and ready to fight. Instead, one tiny bullet, which didn't even hit anything vital, and I'm pretty sure I'm bleeding out and in shock.

"This will sting, love. Just a bit," Ambrose says, and I smell the tang of some kind of antiseptic as he uncaps a bottle. "Just a bit..."

I yelp and whine as he pours the fluid over the wound—it stings a lot—and he holds me down with gentle strength.

"Sh-sh-sh—I know, I know. I'm sorry. I don't even know if Wolves can get infections," he mutters. "Just to be safe, though."

I relax as the pain subsides, and listen as he continues to ramble to himself about forceps and things, and then I feel his hands on me again.

"This will hurt, love. Try to keep still."

He's not lying this time, and I bite my tongue in my effort not to thrash with agony as he probes the wound with something long, sharp and cold. My strength quickly ebbs, though, and even as I'm dully aware of the pain, I no longer fight it as I slide towards the dark.

"Shit," Ambrose swears under his breath. "I can't see past the blood. It's too deep, and—ah, got it!"

I hear something clink in a metal bowl, and then feel Ambrose press a wad of bandages hard against the wound.

"Alright, Noah—I got it out. You can Shift now. Shift for me, please," he says. "I've got you, now. Come on."

As he speaks, he lifts me again, carrying me quickly from the van and lying me on the floor of the garage, where there's more room for my longer, if not particularly larger, human shape.

It's still a risk to Shift with torn flesh, but it's a risk I'll have to take. With my barely-existent healing ability, if I stay a Wolf I'll probably die anyway.

"Sweetheart, please," Ambrose whispers, and I realize from the choke of tears in his voice that he thinks I might not listen to him; that I might choose to let this be my end—to let Thom win and my torn heart rest.

If it wasn't for the pain I know it would cause everyone I love, I might even be tempted by that dark promise.

Instead, I Shift, regaining my human shape in Ambrose's arms, and hearing his exhalation of pure relief as I do.

It hurts, though, and I choke with pain as my injury tears through something important, feeling my heart stutter and trip in my chest as it struggles, and then my vision goes dark. The last thing I see is Ambrose, holding me tight and kissing the side of my face, and speaking softly in my ear, promising me I'll be alright.

I believe him. Even as I fall, I know he's already caught me and—for better or worse—he won't let me go again.

~ ☾ ~

I come to on the couch in the sitting room. I'm lying with my back against Ambrose's chest, my head resting on his shoulder and his arms around me, still holding me tight.

Taking an experimental breath, I find that nothing hurts, and that except for a bit of lingering dizziness and lightheadedness, I feel fine. I'm covered with a blanket—a soft, fresh one this time—and lift it to inspect my bare chest. There's no sign of a wound, and my skin is smooth, clean and unblemished beneath Ambrose's hand.

Sitting up, I twist to look at him. His eyes are closed, and he looks like he's sleeping, but at my movement he opens them and gives me a weak, relieved smile.

"Little wolf," he says, in a whisper that sounds like dried leaves. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine," I answer, frowning at him. He looks unwell, his already pale skin tinged with a slightly blue undertone, and his hand shakes as he lifts it to touch my face. "What about you?"

"I'll be alright. Just...working through the pain, you know." He shrugs, or tries to, wincing and shutting his eyes again as he presses his hand to his chest. He looks worse than he did after healing Julian's case of poisoning, although this time he'd looked awful to begin with.

"When was the last time you ate?" I ask, noting the gauntness of his face and the way his skin seems to stretch over his muscles a bit more tightly than it had before.

His eyes flick open again and he lifts his gaze to mine. "I don't remember," he says. "The morning after we found Brutus, probably. Breakfast, before you left."

"Jesus, Ambrose. That was almost a week ago."

"Was it?"

"Yes. How did you find me, anyway?"

"I'll always find you, little wolf," he murmurs, squeezing my hand and shutting his eyes once more. "A dragon's... treasure..."

"Hey," I shake him by the shoulders. "Don't go passing out on me, you son of a bitch. You're gonna clean yourself up and eat something, and then you're gonna tell me what the fuck I—or we, by the looks of it—just went through a week of hell for."

Keeping his eyes closed, he laughs softly and sighs. "Ah, little wolf, how I've missed you."

Disregarding my demand, his hand slips from mine, and he falls asleep with a smile on his dry, thirst-cracked lips.

I stare at him for a moment, studying his now familiar features, the disarray of his long hair and the line of pain between his even brows, and sigh.

If either Dane or Freya had been watching the house earlier, they'd have seen Ambrose's car leave and mine return, and if they're not already freaking out, they will be soon.

Rising, I spot my clothes lying in a pile on a nearby chair—fortunately, Ambrose had scooped them up along with the envelope of photos, which sits atop my discarded garments, undisturbed—and pull them on.

Next, I grab Ambrose's phone from the side-table, help myself to his thumb-print, and unlock it.

Then, after a few deep breaths, I call Dane.

"Thorne?" he asks, answering on the first ring.

"No... it's me, Dane. Noah."

"Noah? Shit, you're not with that bastard, are you? Because I swear—"

"Dane, shut up and listen for a minute," I cut in. "I'm fine."

Quickly, I relate an abbreviated version of the night's events. When I finish, he's quiet for a few beats, then speaks in a low growl.

"I want you to come home—right now," he says. "Do you understand?"

He puts his alpha authority behind the command, and I brace myself, knowing that even if I manage to resist, it won't be pleasant.

To my surprise, though, I feel nothing. It takes me a moment to realize what that means.

When I don't answer, he repeats himself with even greater force. "Hey, I said do you understand? Come home."

"I am home, Dane," I reply quietly. "I'm with my Mate. Please don't ask me to leave him right now."

"Noah..." There's a warning in his tone that says I'm one wrong word away from him going 'berserk big brother' on me.

"I know, Dane," I sigh, looking over at Ambrose where he lies. "Things aren't settled, okay? And I'm not about to forgive him and pretend nothing happened. But I don't think he'd have brought me back here if I was in immediate danger. He saved my life. I don't know what's going on yet—why he kicked me out and tried to cut me off, but it's obvious it hasn't been easy on him either. I need to figure this out, and if it is a mistake... Well, let me make it, okay?"

He's quiet for so long I wonder if he's still there.

"Dane?"

"Fine," he says. "Fine. But tomorrow's the full moon, Noah. Whatever Thorne's afraid of is happening soon. So find out what the fuck is going on and...call me in the morning."

He sighs, and I can picture him bunching a hand in his hair and pulling at his locs: unhappy, but willing to give me what I'm asking for—even if it is just enough rope to hang myself with.

"Okay," I agree, feeling my throat constrict. "You're a good brother, Dane. And a good alpha. You're...you're gonna have a great Pack, one day. The best. I know it."

"Noah... I swear to God..."

I hear him swallow, and sniff back a teary laugh of my own.

"Yeah, yeah, I know. If I break your heart, you'll kill me yourself, right?"

"Yup."

"Okay. Talk to you in a few hours. Bye."

I end the call and stare at the phone for moment, a thin, lemon-twist of a smile on my lips. Dane has the makings of a legendary Wolf, and I hope I get to see him grow into that potential. At the moment, though, I have more immediate concerns.

In the kitchen, I find an almost bare fridge, a sink full of crusty dishes, and very little in the way of edible food. Finally honing in on a dusty can of chicken soup at the back of a cupboard, I check the date, pop the lid, and heat it up in a pan before plopping it into a bowl and returning to Ambrose in the sitting room.

It's a far cry from Grace's cooking, but for the moment it will have to do.

Setting the bowl on the side-table, I rouse Ambrose with a gentle shake, calling him back to me. He wakes, blinking in momentary confusion.

"Hello, Dr. 'Rose Thorne," I say, giving him a half smile. "Did I ever tell you that you do good work?"

He stares up at me for a moment, his eyes seeming to glow a brighter red before dimming again to their usual warm brown.

"No," he rasps. "You know, I don't think you have."

"Oh. Well, it's true. You're a handy one to have around, when an animal needs saving. I'm afraid I don't have much money, though, so I hope you won't bill me extra for the emergency surgery."

"I'm sure we can...work something out," he says distractedly, and reaches up to pull down the collar of my shirt, inspecting my unmarked skin.

"I'm fine, Ambrose," I assure him, pushing his hands away. "Here—I made you something to eat."

I reach for the soup, but he catches my hands again and sits up, pulling me into a close, soft embrace.

"I don't want it," he says, speaking near my ear. "All I want is this. All I want is you. Just you, little wolf. You're all I need."

I let him hold me a moment, holding him in return and resting in his warmth. After a few breaths, though, I push him away.

"You had me, Ambrose," I tell him, gently. "You had all of me, and then you threw that away and shut me out. You hurt me. And so now what I need is for you to eat your soup, take a shower, and explain yourself. Then... Well, then maybe once I understand, we can both get what we want. Alright?"

He meets my eyes, for once looking entirely sober and serious, and nods.

"Alright, little— Noah. Alright." Leaning forward, he brushes his fingertips along the sides of my face and touches my lips with the ghost of a kiss, then shuts his eyes and rests his brow against mine. "Alright."