Page 48 of Grin and Bear It

“You didn’t need to.” She pressed the back of her hand to Thora’s forehead, clicking her tongue at the heat radiating from the skin. Her weathered fingers moved to Thora’s wrist, counting pulse beats. “Willow’s magic isn’t enough. Not for bear bane.”

She knelt beside the couch, setting a worn leather satchel on the coffee table with a soft thud. The clasp released with a practiced flick of her thumb, revealing dozens of small compartments holding an array of pouches, jars, and ancient-looking scrolls.

“You could have called me sooner,” she murmured, extracting a clay pot sealed with beeswax.

“I didn’t think?—”

“That’s obvious.” No heat in the words, simply a statement of fact as she arranged her supplies. The sharp scent of crushed pine needles and bitter herbs filled the air. “When did the fever spike?”

“Around three. She was restless all night.” Artair sank into the armchair opposite, shoulders hunched. “The dart was meant for me.”

Eira paused, her knowing eyes finding his. “And she stepped in front of it.” Not a question. “Interesting.”

“She made a tactical decision.”

A hint of a smile played at the corners of his grandmother’s mouth. “Is that what we’re calling it?” She uncorked a small vial containing amber liquid, its contents catching the light. “Of course, the fastest way to heal her would be through mate-bonding, but I assume you’re not ready to discuss that.”

Heat climbed Artair’s neck. “Grandma?—”

“Relax, boy. I’m teasing.” Her eyes, however, sparkled with knowing mischief. “Mostly.”

His bear pushed against his consciousness, rumbling approval at the mention of mating. The immediate possessive reaction startled him. They’d known each other barely a week, and yet the idea of a bond with Thora felt... right.

Eira’s fingers worked with practiced efficiency, blending herbs and oils in a small mortar. “She’s strong to have lasted this long. Bear bane would have incapacitated most shifters by now.”

Pride swelled in Artair’s chest. “She’s stubborn.”

“Reminds me of someone.” Eira shot him a pointed glance as she ground the mixture with smooth, circular motions. “I need to see the wound.”

Artair hesitated, then gently pulled back the quilt. The soft cotton of Thora’s borrowed T-shirt had ridden up, exposing a strip of skin and the angry puncture mark below her ribs where the dart had penetrated. Black tendrils radiated outward like poisonous vines, stark against her tanned skin.

Eira leaned closer, her expression grave. “Bad, but not hopeless.” She scooped salve from the clay pot, its surface shimmering with a faint magical residue. “Apply this directly to the wound. Then comes the unpleasant part.”

“Which is?”

She sighed, setting down her mortar and pestle. “Bear saliva contains enzymes that neutralize magical toxins specificallydesigned against shifters. You’ll need to clean the wound... with your tongue.”

Artair stared, his mind suddenly blank. “That seems?—”

“Intimate?” Eira raised a silver eyebrow. “It is. Usually reserved for mates or close kin, but emergencies demand unusual measures.” Her tone softened. “Unless you’d prefer I call Haddock Stoneridge? He’s an elder bear healer, though it would take him an hour to get here from the northern territory.”

His bear snarled at the suggestion of another male near Thora. The visceral reaction startled him, but Artair didn’t bother examining it. Not now.

“I’ll do it,” he said, voice rough.

Eira nodded, unsurprised. She demonstrated the technique on her own arm, showing how his partially-shifted form should lick with broad strokes, drawing poison outward. “The medicine prepares the wound. Your saliva neutralizes the toxin.”

She straightened, tucking wayward silver strands behind her ear. “I’ll make tea. You’ll both need it after.” The offer of privacy clear in her retreating footsteps.

FORTY-FIVE

Artair remained frozen after she disappeared into the kitchen. His bear paced impatiently within, while his human side grappled with the implications. Crossing Thora’s boundaries while she lay vulnerable went against everything he believed about respect and consent.

Yet watching her struggle for breath, skin scorching with fever... his decision crystallized.

He knelt beside the couch, carefully applying the salve to her wound. The mixture tingled against his fingertips, magic responding to his bear energy. The scent reminded him of mountain streams and crushed pine—the high places where bears roamed freely.

As the salve sank into her skin, Thora’s eyes flashed open. Golden amber irises locked onto his face, momentary panic flaring before recognition dawned. She tried to sit up, muscles tensing beneath his touch.

---