1. Jane

"Jane, you're wanted in the Officers' Barracks."

I pull away from the man I'm healing, a soldier who's in his early twenties, like me. He has a dark red curl that's stuck to his forehead like a fall leaf, but his lips are blue, and his eyelids are the same lifeless gray as the cement floor under my shoes. I've just given him my third kiss in as many hours, and I brush a trembling hand over my own dark curls. "I can't leave now. He's right on the edge."

"And he's a grunt," the ward nurse tells me with a frown. "You've been summoned by an officer, so get yourself over there at once. Beth can take your spot here."

I look at Beth. She has a sweet smile and steady blue eyes, but this is only her second week on the ward. She's been shadowing me, watching and learning, but up until now, the most she's healed is a headache.

"Just keep him alive," I whisper as I step away from the bed. "I'll be back as soon as I can." A flash of panic turns her eyes glassy, and I grip her hand, placing it over the soldier's pale fingers. "You can only do what you can do, Beth. If it comes to it, you can hold his hand until the end, right?"

She sucks in a shaky breath but nods, lowering herself to her knees so she can press her lips to his knuckles. It's not the same as a healing kiss, which is delivered directly to the patient's mouth, but it's comfort all the same. I give her an encouraging smile, avoiding the impatient gaze of the ward nurse. This soldier might be just a grunt in her eyes, but he's a patient to me, no more or less important than an officer.

I quickly remove my soiled apron, checking my black tunic for any obvious stains, then wrap a clean apron around my waist. There's no time to do more than scrub my hands and grab a pair of sterile gloves before I'm flying out of the ward and running towards the officers' barracks.

It's a reasonable distance since the hospital sits on the westernmost edge of Sentinel Academy, the leading military college in the Civin States. When the war with Vistria escalated a decade ago, the university's school of medicine was turned into a full-fledged hospital, staffed with both medical personnel and healing omegas like me. It's easy to tell the difference between us, since the doctors and nurses wear white coats embroidered with their various degrees and specialties… while we just pucker up and let the healing begin.

I shake my head at the snarky thought as I cross the campus towards the Military Administration Division. It's nestled in the base of the Citadel Mountains, while the college buildings are spread across a natural valley, bordered on the south by a forested hillside and on the north by the Sanctuary River. The campus is one of the most secluded in the country, but it's only a few hours from the front by troop carrier, making Sentinel Academy a perfect forward operating base for the United Armed Front of the Civin States. Future soldiers begin their education here as cadets, are deployed after graduation, and then in some instances, return to be treated at our medical facilities. I've heard some of the soldiers on the ward talking about it as the circle of life – from books, to bullets, to bandages.

As I hurry towards the military side of campus, fall leaves carpet the stone paths under my feet, and I think again of that soldier's curl. My mom used to say they were kiss-curls, declaring them a sign of strong healing power. But I'm pretty sure she was just trying to spare my feelings over the fact my head looks like a frizzy mop most of the time.

Although, as I reach the door of the administration building, I pause and give myself a mental shake. I really need to stop thinking that way. And what do I care if I'm not as pretty as the other girls I see on campus? Pride and vanity have no place in the world of a healing omega. We're born to serve, gifted with a power to ease the burdens of our betters . The healing kiss doesn't discriminate.

Except for officers with paper cuts and indigestion.

With a clearer head, I mount the dozen steps to the entryway, the glass doors parting in front of me with a magical hiss. I know it's really just sensors and a gear motor, but it's a long way from the rustic commune where I grew up. A swirl of leaves tries to follow on my heels, and I kick them back, nodding my head at the soldier seated behind the reception desk. He eyes the leaves like an enemy combatant trying to sneak into his territory, and I bite my lip to hold my smile at bay.

"Mercy at your service," I tell him, even though it's obvious who I am in my black tunic and white apron.

"Yes, you're needed upstairs. Top floor. Ask for the colonel."

"The c-colonel?" I stutter.

I'm used to dealing with the lowest rungs of the officers' ranks. But if there's a colonel on campus, he must be either close to retirement or one of the pencil pushers from the capital. Even though I'm curious, I would never ask for more details, and the soldier would never tell me. Besides, he's too busy advancing on the leaves with a broom in hand. "Top floor, Mercy," he says with a click of the tongue.

No more or less important than any other patient , I remind myself as I head to the elevator. It's another engineering marvel I first encountered when I arrived on campus five years ago. Getting up a level at the commune usually involved a rickety ladder, splinters in my palms, and a prayer to Mother Mercy.

I step inside the metal box, my finger trembling as I press the button for the top floor. I'm not a fan of tight spaces, but I'm immediately cocooned in silence, and I close my eyes, soaking it in. The other omegas complain about the smells on the ward, but it's the noises that get to me. Not just the screams and sobs, which I've learned to block out, but the squeak of rubber soles on linoleum, the clatter of bedpans and supply carts, and the wail of alarms when another wave of soldiers is headed our way. Some days, by the end of my shift, I feel like the one with the raw, exposed nerves.

But this is… bliss.

So quiet, in fact, I still have my eyes closed when the doors swish apart. It's only the clearing of a masculine throat that makes them pop open.

The man in front of me is enormous. An alpha, obviously, but with thick slabs of muscle on his already sturdy frame. He's in his late thirties, with black eyes and black hair. His jaw is sharp, his features stern, and if his black tactical gear wasn't torn and bloody, he'd look like a recruitment poster for the Alpha Elite Corps. His iron and cedar scent swirls around me, his dark eyes drilling into mine as he snaps, "Am I keeping you awake, Mercy?"

"N-no," I stutter. "I was just listening to the silence."

"Hmm." He turns on his heel, the sleeve of his shirt flapping open. I can see a diagonal slash through the material, clearly the source of the blood caked on his bronze skin. But I'm still counting the stars on his shoulder lapel – is a colonel two or three? - when he glances back and growls, "Hurry up, Omega. Steele's pain tolerance is abysmally low."

"Steele, sir?" I ask as I trot after him. So, the colonel isn't my patient?

His brow furrows, but he doesn't look back at me as he pushes through a heavy metal door. No swishing glass here, because we're entering the Tube, a titanium tunnel that takes us into the heart of the military compound. The front offices are mostly just for show. This walkway will take us to where the real war games are hatched, deep in the belly of the Citadel Mountains.

"I'm Colonel York. Steele is my aide-de-camp. My assistant," he clarifies, his boots ringing loudly on the metal floor. "He's the one you're here to… help."

There's only a short pause, but from the look on his face, I can hazard a guess at his opinion of omega healers. The military tends to be in two camps regarding our skills. Most of the men in the field consider us the next best thing to angels, since they're only shipped this far from the front if their injuries are dire. But the further up the ranks you go, the less need the military has for us. They rely more on field medics and traditional doctors and most officers consider us an unnecessary expense. Not just because of the transportation costs for their wounded, but because our feeding, clothing, and housing expenses come directly out of their budget.

I swallow hard, trying to ignore the fact we're marching through a metal cylinder. I've never been beyond the front offices, and with the walls pressing in on all sides, my claustrophobia is starting to kick in. I stuff my hands into the pocket of my apron and try to distract myself. "Can you tell me anything about his injuries, sir?"

"You don't call me sir," he says shortly. "You're a civilian."

"I'm a mercy," I tell him carefully. "Most of the officers expect it."

"Hmm," he says again, then tugs on the door, as if sheer impatience will out-muscle reinforced steel. We've reached the end of the Tube, and he glares up at a wall-mounted camera, clearly waiting for security to admit us. A loud buzzing sound makes me jump, and then we step into what looks like a locker room.

There are men everywhere, most in sweats or partial uniform, but also plenty in towels or nothing at all. My eyes drink it all in, because while we had plenty of close quarters back on the commune, I never saw a room full of men quite like this . "Wrap it up!" the colonel barks. "Civilian in the house."

"Sorry, sir!" a few of the men call out, grabbing pants and moving along. I don't recognize any faces, since I've been working exclusively with enlisted men, and these guys are still students. But there's plenty of pretty backsides winking at me as they retreat. "They just ran exercises," the colonel mutters, glaring around. "Although they should know better than to treat the compound like it's their dorm room."

"I've seen plenty of naked men before," I tell him, and when he frowns at me, I hurry to elaborate. "Bodies are vessels of pain. They don't always come to us neatly wrapped."

He grunts. "I was talking more about their discipline than your sensibilities, but it's good to know you're not offended."

I swallow a snort. "Suffering is ugly. Most mercies have pretty thick skins."

"And yet, your eyes…" His lips press into a thin line, like he wishes he hadn't spoken. "Come on. Steele is in my quarters."

He leads me down a passageway to the officers' area. He enters without knocking, and I follow on his heels, my gaze drawn back to the gash on his shoulder. It's not bleeding or inflamed, but it still looks painful. Will I be serving him after I've taken care of his assistant? Not that I'll get any say in the matter, since the Omega Oath ensures I give mercy to whoever needs it. But I've just finished a long, brutal shift and my reserves are low.

"I'm not sure what state he's in," the colonel mutters, worry clear in his voice as he enters the room. It's about the same size as the dorm I share with five other girls, although there's only a single bed in the corner, the sheets perfectly tucked and the pillows lined up like paving stones. The rest of the space is taken up by a mahogany armoire, a large worn armchair, and a beautifully carved desk. I imagine the room could pass for any soldier's quarters, but that desk looks like it's been shipped here from a fancy alpha mansion.

"Mercy!" The man slouched in the armchair is at least a decade younger than the colonel, with sandy hair and brown eyes. His shirt is unbuttoned to the waist, the edges of the fabric bloodstained, and his chest is covered by a large field dressing. He's also a beta, which is surprising. I've heard the soldiers talk, and the position of aide to a senior officer is hotly contested amongst well-connected alphas. But I push my curiosity aside as Steele leaps out of his chair and staggers towards me. "Where have you been, Mercy?"

There's such familiarity in his voice, I frown, running his face through the catalog of patients in my mind. I don't recognize him, but as he gets closer, I notice the sweat on his hairline and the glassy sheen to his eyes. "He's feverish," I murmur, turning a concerned gaze on the colonel. "Why didn't you take him straight to the hospital?"

"He insisted on calling for an omega healer." The colonel puts a hand out, stopping his aide before he can reach us. The younger man stumbles, and the wild light in his eyes makes me wonder if the plan was to knock me over or sweep me off my feet. Either way, the colonel places two firm hands on his chest. "Sit down, Steele, or you'll likely collapse on her," he says in a surprisingly gentle voice. "If that happens, I'll need to call a mercy for your mercy."

"We self-heal," I tell him distractedly, which is mostly true. But the colonel just gives one of his dismissive grunts and steers his aide back to the armchair. It's not the best place to treat him, but the colonel might be funny about having an omega healer so close to his bed. "Hello, sir," I say to Steele. "Is it okay if I touch you?"

"Mercy, yeah," he blurts, his wild brown eyes fixed on my face. "Will you kiss me, too?"

The colonel mutters something under his breath, but keeps a hand on Steele's shoulder, and I notice his thumb moving in small, soothing circles.

"I need to check the damage first," I tell them both, trying to avoid staring at that comforting grip. "Sometimes it's best to try conventional medicine first."

"I've already seen a doctor," Steele assures me, his knee bouncing restlessly as he swipes at his damp brow. "We were patched up in the field. Well, I was. York refused treatment, as usual." Even through his fever, the look he shoots his superior officer is affectionate, but my gaze lingers on his neck. The corner of a large, deep scar is peeking out from the bloodstained collar of Steele's shirt.

A claiming bite.

"You're mated?" I ask, and both men stiffen.

"Is that a problem?" The colonel's voice is thick with hostility. "Brigadier Ross gave me approval to appoint Steele as my aide, if that's what you're worried about."

Another surprise, but I keep my face composed. "The only reason I'm asking is because some mates find a mercy treatment… confronting. You might want to discuss it before I start."

Or leave the room altogether . Not that an omega can ever make that suggestion to an alpha, let alone a senior officer. We are here to serve, not issue orders.

"It's not a problem," Steele says quickly, gripping the colonel's arm. He looks up at his mate with earnest eyes behind the haze of pain. "It won't be weird. I've had this done before, remember?"

There's a tense silence, and I'm torn between watching every flicker of emotion on their faces and sinking through the floor. The ward is always full of drama, but I've never been this close to mated soldiers. The energy coming off them is unsettling, and, according to the way my pulse has picked up, more than a little fascinating.

I clear my throat, drawing their eyes. "Could you tell me about that, sir? This other mercy treatment?"

Steele gives me a sheepish look. "It was back home, before I joined the army. There was a mercy who worked out of a clinic in our district. She treated me for a lung infection I couldn't shake." His eyes slide to his mate, slightly guilty. "You can't sign up if your breathing is bad."

I press my lips together, keeping my opinions to myself. There are healers who work in the cities, and while they call themselves mercies, they don't have our training or skills. And since very few of them are omegas, their healing kisses have the same power as a hug - and are definitely less effective than a dose of antibiotics.

"Well, let's start by inspecting the wound," I suggest, fishing my gloves out of my apron pocket and snapping them on. "There's still a chance you'll be better off on the ward."

Steele gives a reluctant nod, and I gesture for him to remove his shirt. The colonel helps him, but as he lifts his arms, the blood drains from Steele's face. By the time they're finished, the beta's chest is dripping with sweat and his breath is coming in short, hard pants. I quickly peel away the field dressing to find a deep laceration, the skin at the edges puffy and red. "What happened?"

"Alpha claw to the chest," the colonel says grimly. "We were on our way back here when we were ambushed. They went after our wounded, and of course Steele had to rush in to help."

"I am a soldier." He rolls his eyes, but then hisses as I touch the raised skin. It's scalding hot and there are streaky marks that suggest the infection is already spreading. I'm not too worried about his pain, since I can take care of that, but the potential for sepsis is another matter.

"I really think you should get admitted to the hospital," I tell him. "You need an IV drip."

The colonel rumbles his agreement, but when I look at him with a cocked brow, there's a glint of amusement in his dark eyes. "Steele doesn't like needles." He nods at the twenty stitches holding the wound closed. "I had to sit on him to get that done."

Picturing the imposing alpha and his earnest beta in that position makes my cheeks burn, and I shake my head to dispel the image. "Blood infection is serious," I tell them in my most professional voice. "If we go ahead with the healing, it will require a long treatment, and to be honest, I'm not sure I'm up to it. I've been on shift for twelve hours and my reserves are low." I glance at the colonel, but he doesn't look impressed. Why would he, when soldiers die every day on distant battlefields from a lot worse things than fatigue? But they need to know what they're up against. What we're up against. "Are you really sure you want me to do this?"

Steele grabs my hand. "Please, Mercy, I really need you to-."

But before he's even finished his sentence, his eyes roll back in his head, and he slumps in the chair. The colonel leaps forward, reaching for his mate, but I nudge him aside and press my fingers to the thick vein in Steele's neck. His pulse is far too fast, his breathing shallow. "Can you lie him on the floor?"

But the colonel is already sweeping him up and carrying him to his bed, setting him down gently before grabbing my arm. "Do what you have to, Mercy. Anything, you understand?"

Calculating my options only takes a moment, since I really don't have many. "Alright, but you'll need to watch us. If I pass out, wake me up. You should also call a doctor." Although, given the progression of the rash, I'm not sure even a drip could help him now. But the colonel nods and runs to the door, bellowing at a passing soldier to drag a doctor here by the scruff if necessary. When he returns to the bed, I've already clambered over his mate, my knees digging into the mattress on either side of his hips. He stops short, and I go still, raising my hands. "Last chance to stop this, sir."

"Do it." He says it with a gnash of his teeth, and I don't waste any more time, reaching out and cupping Steele's cheeks. I take a moment to center myself, to reach down past my exhaustion and open the well inside me. Unfortunately, I was right about my reserves. I'm a lot more depleted than I'd like to be, but I don't hesitate to scoop up my remaining power. To channel it into a stream and force it up through my body in a burning gush.

As soon as I can feel it vibrating against my skin, I lean down and fix my lips to Steele's, unleashing a healing kiss.