18. Ava

Fuck,I'm hot.

I'm trapped in a predicament that's not of my own making, cocooned in a fortress of blankets that whispers promises of eternal warmth, yet I'm perilously close to becoming a human pretzel if I don't move soon. It's the ultimate comfort conundrum. As I internally debate the merits of risking muscle cramps for a few more moments of bliss, a yawn ambushes me, feeling like it's going to dislocate my jaw. My eyes flutter open to a world that's initially just a blur of colors until I blink the sleep away, piece by piece.

The morning sun hits the bedroom just right that the entire room appears illuminated, with beams of light cutting through the dormer windows like spotlights on a dance floor. It's mildly disorienting, because last I checked, my bed didn't come with a king-sized mattress or smell like a mix of the great outdoors and that enticing man scent. The temptation to bury myself deeper into my pillow fortress and ignore the world is strong, but then the door creaks open and in walks my very own Doctor McDreamy, looking like he just rolled out of a commercial. His hair is perfectly tousled, and his eyes are still heavy with sleep.

"Hey there, sleepyhead," Brody rumbles, his voice like warm molasses pouring over pancakes. He has that just woke up vibe that somehow makes him even more attractive, and he's wearing sweats and a long-sleeved shirt that hugs him in all the right places.

"Hey," I murmur, sitting up and ignoring the slight protest from my ribs and leg. My eyes zero in on the tray in his hands, because hello, food is life. "What do you have there?" I ask just as my stomach lets out a hellacious grumble.

With a grin that should be illegal before coffee, he saunters over, the smell wafting from the tray promising all kinds of breakfast delights. "Breakfast," he announces, setting it down with a flourish, his eyes locking onto mine. "But first, bathroom and meds."

I roll my eyes. "Super sexy, making your supposed mate do the pee-pee dance first thing in the morning." Despite my defiance, I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, grateful for the solid floor beneath my feet.

Brody's chuckle is a soothing balm. "Considering yesterday's torn stitch and your exhaustion, I'm playing it safe," he explains, stepping back. He looks at me with so much concern and care for my well-being that it instantly overwhelms me.

Because no one has ever looked at you like that before these three.

"Touché," I concede, standing with a grace I definitely don't feel. "Help, please." The bathroom seems unfairly far in this moment, my body still caught in the twilight between sleep and wakefulness.

Brody swoops in, offering his arm for support. We make our way forward, slow and steady. "Shouldn't you be at work?" I ask, curiosity nipping at me.

"I was. Wrapped up at six," he says, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "It's ten now."

"Oh." I really did sleep a long time.

Disorientation still clings to me as I navigate into the bathroom, throwing a longing look at the shower. I want nothing more than to climb under the hot spray, but I am willing to wait it out. I move as quick as I can while Brody waits just on the other side of the door.

Emerging back into the bedroom, I find Brody casually leaning against the closet door across from me, and his eyes roll over my body lazily.

"Whose room is this?" I ask, reaching for his hand, seeking not just balance but connection. I find myself doing that a lot with these three.

"Ethan's," he replies, his voice carrying layers of unsaid things I want to poke at. "He's the clan heir, destined to be the next Alpha of Clan Hughes in Mystic Falls."

The bed calls to me again, and I collapse onto it, ignoring the protest from my ribs. Brody's by my side in an instant, his touch gentle as he helps me sit up, his brow furrowed in worry. He even fluffs my pillows for me.

"You're burning up," he murmurs, his concern washing over me like a wave. His fingers ghost along my temple to behind my ear.

"That makes sense." I yawn, fighting a battle to keep my eyes open. The fever raging through me turns my muscles into traitors and paints a throbbing ache across my head. Brody retreats to the closet, retrieving that damn medical tote—the same tote Ethan delved into yesterday to stitch me back together.

Speaking of our resident brooding alpha… "Where are the guys?"

"Working. It's Monday, after all." Brody offers me a smile that's part apology, part amusement, as if the concept of a regular workweek still applies in our current, decidedly irregular, situation.

I mean for me, it doesn't, but that is beside the point. I don't know why I expected their jobs to fade into the background while I stayed here.

"Crap, I need to call Eloise." Panic flutters in my chest, like a little bird trapped in a cage, as I realize my phone is missing.

"One crisis at a time, shall we?" Brody suggests, casting a glance down at me. He has a small bottle cradled in his hands.

My curiosity piques, slicing through the fog of discomfort. "And what's that?" My gaze locks onto the bottle.

"These are antibiotics," he announces, giving the bottle a shake that's somehow both reassuring and foreboding. He places it gently on the tray. "Let's check that leg."

Ah, the leg. I'd almost managed to forget the impromptu strip show required for Ethan's emergency stitching, my modesty lost somewhere between the pain and the panic. Now, though, with the sunlight lazily filtering through the room, casting a soft glow over everything, the idea of revealing any part of myself feels suddenly intimate, even under Brody's clinical gaze.

As he peels back the bandage, his attention is purely professional. Still, part of me mourns the lack of a spark in his eyes. It's all business, no pleasure.

I study him as he frowns at my wound, taking in the concern etched into his features. His blue eyes, usually full of calm, now swirl with stormy thoughts. His cheekbones are a sculptor's dream, sharp and defined—a stark contrast to Ethan's rugged charm and Tyler's boyish allure. Brody's beauty is otherworldly, a captivating mix that suggests he's not wholly of this world—part wolf, part something more ethereal, like a fae warrior who's stepped out of legend.

"You're staring at me," he notes, his voice pulling me back from my reverie, a hint of amusement dancing in those crystalline blue eyes that remind me of sea glass washed ashore.

"Just hit me with it, Doc. How bad is it?" I deflect, biting my lip to hide the fact that I was caught admiring how he looks like he's been handcrafted by the gods themselves.

"It's infected." He sighs, his gaze returning to my leg with a mixture of concern and determination. "Ethan did the right thing by removing the stitches to clean it out."

I wince, trying to banish the image of pus from my mind with as much success as trying to hold back the tide. "Maybe skip the gory details before breakfast?" My attempt at humor does little to quell the rising nausea.

He raises an eyebrow, a challenge in his gaze. "Don't you deal with this kind of thing daily?"

"Sure, but it's different with animals," I retort, my voice sharper than intended, trying to steer my thoughts away from the current unpleasantness. "So what's the game plan now?"

He pauses, shifting gears as seamlessly as a shadow passing over the sun. "Your file mentioned undiagnosed anemia?" He moves the food tray closer, uncovering a plate piled high with pancakes, bacon, and eggs, the sight and smell of which instantly hijack all my senses.

Distracted by the culinary masterpiece before me, I start folding a pancake into a makeshift taco. "Yeah, hit me like a freight train around my eleventh birthday. My parents freaked out when they couldn't wake me up one morning."

"Which hospital did they take you to?" His question is casual, but his interest is palpable.

I pause, suspicion knitting my brows together. "Did Ethan turn my life story into clan gossip?"

Brody taps his temple with a sheepish grin. "Pack bond," he confesses, his cheeks coloring with the admission. "So, yeah."

"Mercy Medical," I say, the words slipping out with a mix of resignation and a hint of amusement. The hospital room comes back to me in a flash—sterile, with that constant, underlying scent of antiseptic that somehow made the air both cleaner and heavier at the same time. And don't even get me started on the nuns. "Dad pulled some strings and got me in without the usual wait. A week of needles and beeping machines, and all they tagged me with was this weird cyclic anemia." The word cyclic echoes oddly in the room.

Brody's frown carves deeper lines into his usually smooth forehead, his transition into doctor mode as swift as a shadow passing over the sun, but I'm not ready to dive back into that world of medical jargon and uncertainty yet.

"Hold please," I declare with a flourish, turning my attention to the culinary masterpiece in front of me. My pancake taco is a thing of beauty—a perfect blend of fluffy eggs and crispy bacon all wrapped in the soft embrace of a syrup drenched pancake. I take a bite, and it's a symphony of flavors so utterly delicious that I can't help but moan in appreciation. I catch Brody's amused smirk, but I'm too engrossed in my breakfast to care. Let him wait. This moment is mine.

"I've never seen anyone eat a pancake like that," he says, his voice tinged with humor and something else… Maybe admiration? No, I think I detect desire.

I flash him a grin. "Mama always said anything can be a taco if you're creative enough." I reach for my coffee, the steam rising in gentle swirls. As I stir in just the right amount of cream and sugar, I let the familiarity of the routine ground me. "Cyclic," I repeat, finally addressing his earlier point. "Like clockwork, every six months, I'd just hit a wall of exhaustion. Mama knew then it was time for another iron infusion."

He nods, the doctor in him taking mental notes. "When was your last infusion?" His question is gentle, but it probes at the edges of a wound I've long tried to ignore.

I pause, my spoon hovering midair. The memory—or the lack thereof—stings. "I can't remember," I admit, and the admission feels heavier than I expect.

Brody's response is a soft hum of consideration. "I'll check your file, but first, we need to address that leg."

His shift in focus catches me off guard, his concern obvious in the intensity of his gaze. "You know something," I accuse. His posture and the way he looks at me… It's like he's piecing together a puzzle I didn't know I was a part of.

"Not really," he deflects, but his eyes tell a different story, one he's not quite ready to share. He hands me an antibiotic, the pill small and unassuming yet somehow significant. Then, with clinical efficiency, he takes my temperature, the beep of the thermometer breaking the brief silence between us.

Feeling oddly vulnerable under his care, I mutter, "I feel like a child."

"One hundred and five point eight," he announces, his brow furrowed. "That can't be right."

"I run hot," I quip, trying to lighten the mood as I sip my coffee, letting the liquid warmth chase away the chill of discomfort.

"So you run hot and have this weird anemia," he muses, that puzzled look returning. His next question nearly makes me spit out my coffee. "When was your last cycle?"

The coffee threat is real, and I choke in surprise. "Excuse me?" I rasp out, my face undoubtedly a portrait of shock and embarrassment.

He rolls his eyes, but there's a softness there as he carefully treads around a sensitive subject. "Your period. Humans have those, don't they?"

"Yes, but—" I start, feeling the heat in my cheeks rise to match the fever I'm supposedly running.

"As your doctor," he begins, then hesitates as if expecting my protest.

"Not my mate?" I tease him.

His smile, when it comes, is soft around the edges—a contrast to the clinical detachment of moments ago. "I'm glad to see you're coming around to the idea, but as your doctor, it's important."

I let out a sigh, the weight of history and loss pressing down. "My last infusion was right before my mama died," I say, the words laden with more than just physical fatigue. Grief.

"Five years," he murmurs, the concern evident in the tightness of his jaw.

"Without her…" I trail off, the words tangled in a thicket of grief and stubborn independence. "I didn't see the point. She was the one who…" The explanation sounds hollow, even to my own ears.

He watches me, a silent observer, then asks a question that sends ripples through the still waters of my life. "Do you have any spiritkin in your family line?"

The question hangs between us, dense with implications. I can see it in the way he looks at me with a slight hope that I'm more than just human, and a part of me hates that I'm about to disappoint him.

"Nope," I state, my tone devoid of emotion. "You're hardly the first to venture down that path, especially with LHS looming in the background like a medical boogeyman."

"That was my initial suspicion," Brody concedes, his gaze sharpening. Lycanthrope-hematolysis syndrome, otherwise knowns as LHS, a shadow that trails the bloodlines of spiritkin, is a genetic syndrome that turns their legacy into a curse. Those with spiritkin in their ancestry end up with weird little medical anomalies like LHS, where the descendent has a strange anemia. It's a logical leap, given the erratic tides of my own health, syncing more with celestial cycles than any calendar could predict.

"And just for the record, I'm due for my period," I add, tossing a playful wink into the mix so I don't feel awkward. It doesn't work. "Guess I'll need a raid on my apartment soon."

He waves off the concern with a nonchalant flick of his wrist. "Ethan and Tyler are on it after their shift," he assures me, bringing the conversation back my immediate needs.

"Well, damn," I murmur, both impressed and frustrated at their efficiency.

"You, Ms. Ava, are under strict orders to rest today," he declares, his tone brooking no argument yet laced with a warmth that belies his stern fa?ade. "A gentle stroll every few hours, but don't push it with the crutches. Your escapade likely strained more than just our patience. You bounced back quickly then, but now, your healing's slowing for some reason."

He's probably right. Plus, I don't hate the idea of him pampering me for the day. "Okay, but no promises if boredom strikes."

His hum is skeptical, but there's a flicker of amusement in his eyes. "No arguments?"

"Even I recognize when I'm outmatched," I concede, gesturing to the peace offering on the tray before me full of deliciousness. "Keep the food coming, and I'll be the picture of obedience."

The conversation takes a sudden turn, his cheeks dusting pink at the next suggestion. "Would you like to get washed up today?" he blurts out in one rush.

His blush is unexpectedly endearing. "Yes, that would be…nice," I reply.

"We have everything you need. There's a seat in the shower, and we can manage your leg without risking the stitches," he explains, the practicality in his voice doing little to mask his underlying concern. "I also have a cover for your cast."

"Maybe in a bit?" I hedge, buying time to wrap my head around the logistics and the implicit closeness it suggests.

He'd see me naked.

His nod is reluctant as he inspects the inflamed skin around my stitches with a clinical detachment that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "I'd prefer the redness to subside first," he admits, then pauses, a flurry of unsaid thoughts brewing behind his gaze.

"Out with it, Brody."

The words spill out, hesitant yet heavy with implication. "I could give you some of my blood. It might help with healing."

The offer stops me, the weight of its significance sending a shiver down my spine. "That sounds disturbing. Explain," I quip, setting my coffee aside to gauge his seriousness.

"It's unusual, I admit, but our blood has healing properties that go beyond human medicine. It's not a common practice nor widely accepted, but it could help." His fingers trail a light path over my leg, reminding me I'm in nothing but one of their shirts.

"And the catch?" My voice is wary. His blood? It feels like it would only deepen a bond we are all unsure about.

"Only a bite has the power to turn. My blood can heal. It's a lesser known truth among the spiritkin," he clarifies, his assurance doing little to quell the storm of questions in my mind.

"Huh," I mutter, the simplicity of my response belying the whirlwind of my thoughts. "Let's table that idea for now and see how the antibiotics fare."

He doesn't press, though disappointment flickers briefly in his eyes. "Eat up, Ava," he encourages, then strides across the room, leaving silence in his wake.

"Where are you off to?" I call out, a twinge of something akin to separation anxiety coloring my tone. I don't want him to go.

"Missing me already?" His laughter echoes back, light and teasing. Returning with my phone, he tosses it onto the bed. "Thought you'd want this."

"I do," I admit, the device a lifeline to some semblance of normalcy. "And you? Where to now?"

"Just grabbing my laptop," he calls over his shoulder. "Seems like you might need some company today."

Damn wolves and their uncanny ability to make me feel like the center of their universe, even when I'm trying to push them away. Liar. I want him to spend the day with me.

Ignoring Brody's concerned glance, I hastily dial Eloise, who frustratingly doesn't answer the first time. Tension curls in my stomach as I call the clinic directly—still no answer. My frustration blooms into full-blown anxiety, making me glare at the phone as if it's personally responsible for my current bedrest.

On my third attempt, Eloise finally picks up, her voice wrapped in that overly polished, customer service tone she reserves for particularly difficult situations. "Dr. Martinez," she greets, and I can almost see her with a professional smile plastered on, ready to deal with whatever shenanigans is unfolding on her end. She never uses my formal title unless she has to.

"Oh no," I murmur, a sense of dread washing over me as I sit up straighter in bed, the sheets pooling around my waist. The morning light filters through the curtains, casting a soft glow on everything it touches, but the beauty of the moment is lost on me. "What happened?" I press, bracing for the worst.

"Well, I have an inspector here called by one Mr. Thompson," Eloise replies, each word making my heart sink further. Mr. Thompson, my father, is the last person I want involved in any aspect of my life right now, especially not here, not with my clinic.

"What the hell is my dad doing there?" I hiss into the phone, my voice barely a whisper of fury.

"He brought inspectors with him," she answers, and I hear the irritation lacing her words. I can almost picture her standing in the clinic with her arms crossed, the epitome of frustrated professionalism. "He's reading a magazine in the waiting room…whistling to himself, I might add."

As Brody walks back in, laptop under one arm and a coffee cup in his other hand, his raised eyebrow silently asks a thousand questions. Deciding he might as well be privy to the full conversation, I switch the call to speakerphone, letting Eloise's strained voice fill the room.

"The office is cleaned up?" I ask him, a glimmer of hope piercing through the dread. Brody gives a single nod before he settles on the other side of the bed, the breakfast tray sitting between us.

"Yep, smells like bleach in here, among other things." Eloise's voice strains through the speaker, her attempt at maintaining her customer service fa?ade barely holding. "Mr. Thompson threatened to shut us down."

Anger and fear coil tightly within me, my whole body tensing as if preparing for a fight. "What game is he playing?" I mutter more to myself than to Brody or Eloise.

"Oh, I have a suspicion." Eloise's tone lightens, but it's with forced cheerfulness. "Does dinner ring a bell?" she hints, and it's like a punch to the gut.

I curse under my breath, the pieces falling into place with a clarity that I wish I didn't have. "He wants me to play a part, and that doesn't include my clinic," I say, the words tasting like ash in my mouth. The threat of tears pricks at my eyes, but I fight them back, unwilling to break down now.

"Good thing the inspector is from Mystic Falls," Eloise says, a note of triumph in her voice, "and he is fae."

Relief washes over me, even as I sag back against the pillows, exhausted by the mere thought of dealing with my father. The clinic, my dream, teeters on the edge of human and spiritkin worlds, vulnerable to the whims of those who wield power carelessly, those like my father, who want me to do what he wants of me.

"Ms. Harper." The smooth, lyrical voice interrupts my spiraling thoughts, and it's unmistakably fae. "Everything here is up to code. Not a single trace of spiritkin—not that it matters, mind you, but should you treat spiritkin in the future, you'd need to apply with the medical board."

"We only treat pets here," Eloise snaps back, and I can hear the grind of her teeth, her frustration so palpable, it's almost a physical presence in the room. "Ava, I have to go." The phone disconnects, leaving me to stare at a blank phone screen.

The fae inspector's assurance that we're compliant brings temporary relief, but Eloise's revelation that my father reported us sends a shiver down my spine.

"Why now?" I wonder aloud, the question hanging heavily in the air.

Brody remains silent through it all, his presence a steady anchor in the chaos of my thoughts. When I finally turn to him, seeking something, anything, he simply asks, "When is dinner with your father?"

"About that…"