"Did you get a look at the vehicle?" Ambrose asks as he cleans the cuts on my hands and knees.
He'd insisted on healing me, even though I'd told him it wasn't necessary—it was only a few scrapes, after all—but he'd told me that this type of injury was by far the easiest to heal.
"Stings a bit, and then it's done," he'd said. "I barely feel it."
First, though, the abrasions had to be cleaned and disinfected, and that's why I'm perched on the kitchen counter in my underwear, feeling like a kid who fell off his bike, while Ambrose gently washes the blood and dirt from my torn skin.
"No," I say, answering his question. "The headlights were too bright, and then I was too busy not getting killed."
He swabs my knee with antiseptic and I hiss at the sting.
"Sorry—nearly finished," he says, businesslike and bending close to inspect the injury. "And... you're quite sure it was a deliberate attempt on your life? And not just your everyday variety of bad driver?"
"Pretty damn sure," I reply. "Why else would someone wait until I was in the middle of the street before stomping on the gas? They meant to hit me, Ambrose, at the very least."
Frowning, he straightens and sets his materials aside, then moves back in front of me, quite close, and places a hand on each of my knees. The pain quickly fades and then vanishes beneath his touch, but he doesn't release me and I find myself growing uncomfortably aware of his nearness, and of the fact that I'm in my underwear, and that he's standing between my legs.
"I'm glad you're alright, little wolf," he says, with quiet gravity, "and it certainly sounds like an intentional attack. But why? Are there many people who want you dead?"
"Not that I'm aware," I say, almost laughing at the thought and trying to contain the heat steadily building in my chest. "It must be connected to the case, don't you think? The thief, maybe sending a warning for Dane to back off."
Ambrose studies me, his eyes traveling my features as though he might find the answer there. "I'm no detective, but that doesn't fit the pattern so far. Not that it's impossible, of course. We'll have to see what that brother of yours has to say about it."
"It's a good thing you were here tonight," I comment wryly and reach up to adjust my glasses, which by some miracle escaped harm. "Dane can't accuse you of trying to run me over, at least."
"He doesn't like me much, does he?" Ambrose asks, quirking a brow.
"He doesn't know you," I say, wondering if he's ever going to let go of my knees.
"He's protective of you, and doesn't want to see you hurt," he replies quietly. "I suppose he knows you have been, already?"
Flinching, I look away, feeling uncomfortably exposed and wondering exactly what Ambrose sees when he looks at me—if my shattered heart is laid bare in all its mangled glory to his eyes. "He knows enough," I say, and swallow.
Finally releasing his hold on my knees, Ambrose lifts his hands to my face and gently forces me to look at him. "I meant it, Noah, when I said that I wished yours was the kind of hurt that I could heal. I know from experience it is not—but like all wounds, air and light will do it good. You'll tell me about it—soon, I think—when you're ready."
I scoff at that. "Oh really? The same way I'll ask you to kiss me, huh?"
This, I'd decided, I would never do, no matter how much I wanted to.
Ambrose clearly wants me to as well, judging by the way he's looking at me now, with eyes like night ringed in fire.
He nods. "Yes. The very same."
"Well don't hold your breath for that," I laugh, aware that my own is a little fast and shallow at the moment. It catches as he slides his hands up the outside of my thighs to my hips and leans close, so I feel the brush of his mouth against my ear as he speaks.
"I'm an honest man, Noah Hunter," he murmurs, accent thickening. "But I'm human enough, after all. Don't go making me a liar."
A shiver runs the length of me as I realize how much danger I could really be in right now. I might be a wolf, but I'm no match for Ambrose Thorne. He's stronger, older, more powerful, and the very nearness of him is intoxicating. The scent of him—that seductive spice—and the heat passing from his body to mine combine to dissolve my will like sugar in warm water.
I've never felt like this before, and it's clear he wants me—though I don't understand why —and equally clear that if he had a mind to, he could take what he wants, easily enough.
And to my absolute horror, I find the idea highly erotic—to be wanted that way, that much.
He takes a slow breath and then—to my disappointment and almost equal relief—steps back and takes my hands in his, inspecting the palms.
"Ah—all better," he says, seemingly satisfied with his work, and then turns away and begins to pack up his first-aid kit, as if he hadn't just nearly seduced me out of my shorts.
I push myself off the counter and stand, struggling to get my scattered thoughts and mixed feelings under control, and then grab my torn jeans and pull them on, hoping Ambrose hasn't noticed the state I'm in.
"Can you heal yourself, too, as well as others?" I ask, just for something to say.
He glances at me over his shoulder, a hint of a smirk on his mouth. "Yes, though it's not as easy, for whatever reason. Takes about twice the effort and works only half as well."
"You said you were a doctor before you became a vet. Why'd you quit?"
He doesn't say anything, and crosses the room to put the medical kit back in the cabinet where he keeps it, and for a moment I don't think he'll answer me. Then he turns towards me but stays where he is, with the length of the kitchen between us. Somehow, he seems very far away all of a sudden, and the distance makes me feel strangely cold.
He looks at me keenly, and there's nothing like amusement on his face.
"It was too hard," he says quietly.
"The pain?" I ask.
"No, not the pain," he says, shaking his head. "Pain you get used to, and for most injuries, it doesn't last long, anyway. Poison's among the cruelest weapons, in fact—your boy Julian was the worst I'd had in ages."
"So, what was it then?" I ask, curious and made bold by the adrenaline still running in my veins.
He crosses his arms over his chest and a slight frown bends his mouth. I get the sense he's choosing whether, and what, to tell me. Then he relaxes and smooths his hands through his long hair, taking a deep breath and coming towards me once more.
I'm not sure what he means to do, and back away until I feel the counter behind me, my heart-rate increasing as he nears.
He stops with his chest almost touching mine and pauses for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he reaches above and around me, and takes down two plates from the shelf overhead.
I glare, and he gives me an amused, all-too-knowing look, and then goes to the stove and serves us each a portion of the meal he'd made. We hadn't eaten yet, but he'd kept it warm.
It was a simple supper of chicken, mashed potatoes, and peas, and he sets our plates on the prep-table that occupies the center of the room, pulling up a bar-stool on one side.
It seems we're eating in the kitchen tonight.
I follow his lead, sitting opposite him with the length of the table between us, and then I wait for him to speak.
He pushes his food around on his plate with his fork for a moment, frowning at it, and then addresses his chicken and peas.
"I was a medic, in the Second World War," he says. "In those days my age and credentials still made sense, so it was easy enough to do. Jack was there, on the front, and I wanted to be where he was. I wanted to use my gift to help, as well, of course. I was a bit arrogant, back then—believe it or not."
He raises his eyes to mine, and I see the spark of humor in them, but it quickly fades.
"Most of the time, I stuck to conventional medicine," he continues. "And most of the time, that was good enough. When it wasn't, though—when a man was hurt beyond what stitches and bandages could fix—well, that's when I'd use my hidden talent. But as miraculous as my ability might seem, little wolf, I have my limits, and I can only do so much. Serious injuries like that—even if I only healed them enough so the man would live—I could only handle, at most, one every few days, and even then I laid myself low with exhaustion every time."
He pauses for a breath, holding very still, and goes on in a quiet, even voice.
"So when there were multiple casualties, that's when I'd have to decide. First, whether to use my gift at all—and possibly put myself out of commission for a time, where I'd be of no use to anyone—and second, if I did use it, then on whom. Would I save my dearest friend, who'd fought at my side for months, or the fellow with a wife and newborn babe at home? Would I save the captain who'd saved my life a dozen times already, or the lad— barely seventeen and shot to hell his first day on the front? Would I save my own brother, or... myself."
He gets up and goes to the sink, pouring himself a glass of water.
"Jack knew which I'd choose," he says with his back still turned, "so he took away my choice, that day. Took my own pistol right off me—his was out of bullets by then—and I didn't know it until too late. He was always good at sleight of hand, Jack was. Anyway, after that... I'd had enough of playing God."
Returning to his seat, he meets my eyes and lets out a long breath.
"So. Satisfied?" he asks, not harshly but with enough rawness in his tone that I'm taken aback.
"I—I'm sorry. I d-d-didn't m-mean to make you t-tell me. You d-didn't have to tell me," I stammer, and then clench my jaw, willing myself to stop. "I'm sorry about Jack."
"Me too," he says, more softly, and then sighs. "Don't worry, little wolf—I'm not upset with you, and I wouldn't have told you if I didn't want to. Only... I suppose it still hurts, even after all this time. That's what I mean when I say I wish this sort of pain was as easy to heal as cuts and bruises. I know of what I speak. That's all."
Clearing my throat, I realize that neither of us has taken a bite of food, and mine has gone cold.
"What about animals?" I ask, scooping some peas and potatoes onto my fork. "Can you heal them, too?"
He doesn't answer, and when I look up I find him watching me with raised brows, the spark of humor lighting his eyes like fire once more.
"Noah Hunter," he says with mock severity, "what kind of man do you think I am? Do you imagine I'd let poor Dougal wear that awful great cone for two weeks, if I could have had it off him any sooner?"
A smile teases my mouth and I fight to contain it, and lose.
"No," I say. "I don't suppose I do."