Page 53 of Fool Moon First Aid

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.

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