Recovery is not what I expect it to be.
I am used to healing fast. Wolves are built for it. Bones knit. Flesh remembers its shape. Pain fades into memory quickly enough that you can pretend it never mattered. This time, my body refuses that rhythm.
Days pass. Then more.
The wound along my side closes cleanly, skin smooth and unmarked, but the ache beneath it lingers like a bruise pressed too deep to surface. My chest feels heavy when I breathe, as if something inside me is still swollen, still adjusting. Every surge of power I try to touch answers sluggishly, thick and resistant, like moving through cold water.
The healer frowns every time she checks me.
“You should be stronger by now,” she mutters, not accusing, just unsettled.
“I feel fine,” I lie.
Adam hears it anyway.
He sits w
