him in desperation.
His hands moved out of sight, and she finally saw her leg. Cringing, she understood why every move hurt like hell. The sculpture had left its mark—a crosshatch of shallow but ugly gashes marching down the length of her thigh and halfway down her calf, highlighted by some really appalling bruises.
In his haste, Dr. Lang treated only the wounds above her knee. Her already low opinion of him dropped even further.
Wolf pulled a small kit off his belt, produced a silver canister. “This is liquid mend. Are you allergic?”
“I’ve never heard of it. Will that tell you?”
One eyebrow cocked. Maura thought she detected amusement in the depths of his vivid eyes.
“This will.” He sprayed a fine mist on her left thigh. “Tell me immediately if there is any sensation.”
“It feels cold. Is that normal?”
“Yes.” The next test was on her injured leg. “Anything?”
“No—nothing.”
“I want you to hold still for me.”
She nodded, braced herself.
Slowly, with the care of a healer, he sprayed every inch of her leg, the ugly gouge Dr. Lang’s needle left across her right hand, the bruises on her left thigh. He paused over her shoulder with a few choice words, then sprayed it as well—after an agonizing examination to make sure the collarbone wasn’t fractured.
Though she had always been modest, even with her parents, this stranger’s attention didn’t feel invasive. Instead, for a few short minutes, his touch wrapped her in the illusion of safety.
He moved up to her face, cleaned the blood that caked her skin and matted her hair, cursing under his breath as he probed the wound. Maura clamped her jaw on the scream in her throat.
Finished at last, he sprayed a cooling layer of mend along her temple. He bound her hand, then moved to her right leg, wrapping it from ankle to hip with the same thin, soft bandage.
“The mend will accelerate the healing.” His low voice was like a balm. Like Dad’s—warm, patient, quiet. Hearing that accent again tore at her. She missed him—missed them both, so much. Wolf pulled her back to the moment. “Can you walk on your own?”
She nodded, this time with much less backlash. The liquid mend had begun its healing the moment he applied it.
“There is a robe in the bedroom. I will have your clothing seen to.” He raised his hand. “You can leave your bag with me.”
Needing to trust, wanting to believe she could trust him, Maura handed her bag over. He let her go, his gaze following her, almost physical, as she made her way toward the door.
She found the white robe hanging on a wall peg, clenched her teeth to keep from moaning as she struggled out of her sweat-stiff, bloody clothes. The coarse robe felt like velvet in comparison.
When she returned to the living room the contents of her bag were scattered across the brushed steel coffee table. “What are you—”
“Sit down, Maura.” Anger chilled his quiet voice.
She obeyed, twisted her fingers into the folds of the robe to keep them from shaking. The grey sofa was even more uncomfortable this time, the inflexible cushions digging into her bruises. She forced herself to stillness when he approached her.
He dropped an object in her lap. Her driver’s license. She expected him to question that. “This is not the ID of an outworlder. And you need to explain how an illegal artifact is in your possession.” He skipped over the fact that her photo was on that ID. Then he added two items she didn’t expect—her battered notebook and pen. “If someone else caught you with this, your life would be forfeit.”
“What?”
“Why do you think Anthony was hunted, killed?”
Hunted—God, no—
“I don’t—”
“He violated the law by breathing.”
She flinched away from the anger in his voice, tried to stand. Wolf grabbed her left arm, pushed her against the cushion, let go before she could panic. He braced his hands on either side of her and leaned in, only the space of a