Doctor Immacolati read over his notes.
“She is alive,” he said.
I blinked. “Excellent diagnosis.”
He ignored me. “She is also exhausted, dehydrated, malnourished, bruised, magically depleted, and running on stubbornness and whatever ancestral fury your wolf considers a personality.”
Eden stirred behind my eyes.
The doctor pointed his pen at her. “You too. Rest.”
My eyes flashed gold, and for one very reasonable second, both my wolf and I considered electrocuting him.
Just a little.
Just enough to make him drop the attitude.
“You will eat,” he continued, because apparently survival instincts were optional in his profession. “You will hydrate. You will sleep. You will come back for another blood draw in six hours. No training. No shifting unless your life is in danger. No mating bit
