AVERY.

The memories never faded—burnt into my soul like an old scar that refused to heal. The thoughts of my mother's death still haunted my dreams. She thought I had died. She died believing her daughter was gone.

There was never a chance to say goodbye.

Never a moment to tell her the truth or hold her hand one last time. The guilt gnawed at me in quiet moments, whispering cruel truths: that she died in grief, that she died alone.

Now, I was a wolfless orphan, stripped of purpose, and family.

I had no light… until Iris's love.

She comforted me, this woman of healing and calm. She was not just kind—she was the reason I got up every morning. She clothed me with purpose and gave me a place in her world.

Her hands, always warm and scented with herbs, worked magic I couldn’t understand at first. I watched as she mended broken bodies and, sometimes, broken spirits.

I wanted to be like her.

I studied hard, buried myself in books, pouring my soul into zoology while assisting her with oils and tinctures. Every time she smiled at me or patted my head in praise, a piece of me stitched itself back together.

Ten years. Ten long, quiet years of rebuilding.

Now, I worked as a doctor in the Moonbourne pack. Not whole, not healed—but functional.

I scrubbed antiseptic over my hands, methodical and accurate. The sterile smell lingered on my skin as I groaned and rubbed my neck. My shift was finally over, and the exhaustion hit me like a crashing tide. My stomach grumbled—just snacks today. I needed real food. Something hot, something to remind me I was still alive.

I considered heading to the cafeteria before texting Iris. She was traveling again. I missed her, but I understood. She was needed in ways I could only aspire to be.

Then my phone buzzed.

Mary.

"Hey bestie, hope your surgery went well. Any chance you could cover my evening clinic today? Something urgent came up with my family. I'd owe you big time!"

I sighed. My bones ached for rest, but I also knew Mary. If she was asking, it mattered.

"Hi. Just finished up. What time is your clinic?"

Almost instantly:

"Starts in an hour, runs till 8 pm. I know it's last minute, really appreciate it if you could. I'll take your shift anytime you need, no questions asked!"

I stared at the screen for a beat. The weight of the day pressed down on my shoulders, but so did the echo of a promise I once made to myself—to be someone others could count on.

"Alright, Mary. Consider it done..."

I grabbed a quick yogurt from the cafeteria to hold me over and headed back to the clinic.

The hallway lights flickered softly as I moved through the motions—checking patient notes, greeting the nurse at the station, preparing for another few hours of duty.

The clinic was quiet as I saw the last few patients. Simple cases—minor injuries, follow-ups, gentle words of reassurance. My body moved on autopilot, but part of me drifted, thinking of my mother, of what she would say if she saw me now. Would she be proud? Or just heartbroken?

I didn’t notice him at first—the small boy in the waiting area.

He sat hunched over, his tiny frame trembling, a raw scrape marring his knee. Dust clung to his cheeks, and tear tracks shimmered under the pale fluorescent lights.

He looked up at me.

And something inside me cracked.

His eyes—blue, innocent, quietly pleading—pulled me toward him like gravity. He looked lost. Alone. And despite the smudge of dirt on his cheek and the tremble in his lip, he was heartbreakingly beautiful.

I knelt. My voice softened instinctively.

"Hi there. That looks like it might sting a bit. Can I take a look?"

He nodded, wiping at his eyes.

"And where are your parents, sweetie?"

"My dad… he’s busy."

My heart clenched. I didn’t know why, but those three words triggered something old and painful in me. How often had my mum told me when I was younger the same thing when I needed comfort? That someone was just "busy"?

"Is he around here?"

He shook his head, eyes dropping to his knee again.

"Well," I murmured, "let's get this cleaned up, okay? Then we’ll find whoever brought you."

His voice dropped to a whisper.

"Please don’t tell him. He told me not to play by the big rocks... I didn’t listen. He’ll be really mad."

He looked so small. So scared.

I gave a gentle smile. "We need to make sure you’re okay. But... maybe we can leave out the details for now, hmm?"

"Just say I tripped?"

I chuckled softly. "You’re clever. But let’s get your knee patched first. Then we’ll figure it out."

He took my hand—a tiny, warm palm in mine—and I guided him to a treatment room. As I cleaned his wound, he barely flinched. I admired that.

"You’re brave," I said. "That’s important."

When I applied the dinosaur bandage, he smiled just a little. My heart warmed.

Then the door burst open.

A man filled the doorway—tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a dark tailored suit that clung to his frame like it was made for him. His presence didn’t just enter the room—it commanded it. Controlled it. The air changed around him.

His hair was raven-black like the little boy’s, thick and tousled just enough to make you wonder if he had run his hands through it out of frustration. A shadow of stubble lined his jaw—sharp, strong, masculine. His lips were pressed into a thin line of suppressed emotion, suggesting he was moments from exploding with wrath or crumbling with fear.

But it was his eyes that struck me the hardest—those brilliant, electric blue eyes, identical to the boy’s. They were fixed on the child, glowing with worry.

Raw, unfiltered worry.

"Theo?"

The boy gasped. “Dad.”

He crossed the room in three long strides and crouched beside the table, all that coiled strength folding down into something gentle. He cupped Theo’s face with both hands, his fingers trembling slightly. His thumb brushed the boy’s cheek with a tenderness that was almost adoring.

“Theo, what happened?”

And then he looked at me.

The moment his gaze met mine, the air thinned. I forgot how to breathe.

There was something magnetic about him—something dangerous and exquisite, like a blade forged from moonlight. He was beautiful in the kind of way that wasn’t safe. The kind that could ruin a person just by being real.

My heart slammed once against my ribs.

He was power and accuracy and grief and concern, all wrapped in the body of a man who looked like he belonged on the cover of a magazine—and in the middle of a war.

And still, his eyes—his sharp, unreadable eyes—never left mine.

"I’m Doctor Avery," I managed, my voice even, despite the chaos crashing inside me. “Would you mind stepping outside for a quick chat?”

He didn’t speak immediately.

He just… looked. Not with suspicion, not with hostility—just intensity. As if he were trying to read everything I’d ever thought, everything I’d ever been, in the brief silence between us.

And then something flickered there.

Something I hadn’t seen in a long time.

Recognition?

No. Interest.

Deep, undeniable interest.

His gaze dropped—just for a second—to my mouth. Then returned to my eyes, slower this time. Curious. Calculating. Like I was a mystery he hadn’t expected to find, but now couldn’t ignore.