Page 46 of Untamed

Arlo drags in a breath that breaks halfway through. He looks at the Doctor instead of me, and the aura that rolls out of him makes the guard take a step backward.

“Get out of this house.”

The Doctor blinks. “Maddox, you’ve been injured. We need to document—”

“Put back everything you touched and get out.”

Blood runs down Arlo’s ribs beneath the shredded remains of his shirt, four deep gashes crossing his shoulder and chest. The Doctor looks at the wounds with far too much interest.

“This is exactly the kind of incident the Council needs recorded.”

Arlo braces one hand on the dresser and forces himself higher. “Miller thought procedure protected him too.” His voice is quiet enough to make the guard stop moving. “Touch Orion’s things again and you lose the hand. Put that in your report.”

The Doctor looks at him for another second, then at me, before leaving the hoodie on the floor and walking out. The guard follows him, and the front door slams hard enough to shake the wall.

Arlo makes it another heartbeat before the strength goes out of him. He slides down the dresser, and I shift so fast it hurts.

My knees hit the hardwood. My hands come up and stop in front of me because they are shaking too badly to trust, and the gashes in his chest keep filling with blood. I can still feel the exact resistance of his body against my claws. There is no missing time to hide inside this time, no blackout and no excuse.

“Arlo.”

He closes his eyes for a second.

I can’t make myself move closer. “I’m sorry.”

“I know.” The answer hurts worse because he doesn’t soften it for me.

His hand slips lower over the wound, fresh blood coating his palm. “Come here.” I shake my head, but he says my name again, firmer this time. “Orion.”

“I hurt you.”

“You did.”

My throat closes, but he doesn’t tell me it was fine or pretend it didn’t matter. He breathes through another pulse of pain and reaches one blood-slick hand toward me.

“Mine worked on you.” His fingers catch my wrist. “Try yours on me.”

I stare at him and remember the implant wound closing under his mouth, heat moving through torn skin until there was nothing left but blood.

“I don’t know if I can.”

“Neither did I.” His grip tightens. “Please. It hurts.”

The request pulls something immediate and instinctive through the bear. Pack is hurt. Pack is bleeding. The need to tend him is stronger than the guilt trying to keep me frozen, and I crawl closer.

The deepest gash runs from the top of his shoulder toward the center of his chest. I can smell blood, salt, sweat, and the fear he is trying not to feed into the bond because he knows what it will do to me.

I put one hand against his side. “Tell me if I make it worse.”

“You won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“No.” His eyes open. “But I know you.”

I bend and touch my tongue to the edge of the wound. Arlo hisses and grabs my forearm, and I freeze until he tells me to keep going.

The first taste is iron, but heat follows quickly. It gathers in my mouth and pulls through the bond, and beneath my tongue the torn edge of his skin shifts. I stop breathing long enough to watch the gap narrow. The wound does not vanish instantly, but it closes with every careful pass, blood slowing as muscle draws together beneath it.