Chapter 2

Ada stood frozen for a count of five.

Jax was panting heavily now, his head hanging low between his shoulders. The blood was pooling on the tile beneath him, dark and fast. If she didn't stop the bleeding, the Blood Rage wouldn't matter. He would be dead in twenty minutes.

"Okay," Ada whispered to herself. "Okay."

She leaned the mop against the wall. She walked to the supply closet—really just a glorified cage in the corner filled with gauze and ace bandages—and grabbed the trauma kit.

She approached the bench slowly, telegraphing her movements. She wasn't a warrior. She didn't have an aura of command. She was just Ada. Plain, boring Ada.

"Jax?" she said softy.

His head snapped up. The violet gaze locked onto her. There was no recognition there, only a chaotic, swirling violence. He curled his lip, revealing canines that were fully extended.

"I’m going to clean the cut," she told him, as if she were talking to a spooked horse. "It looks deep."

She stepped into his reach. It was the stupidest thing she had ever done.

Jax snarled and lunged. His hand shot out, grabbing her wrist.

His grip was iron. It bruised instantly. Ada gasped, dropping the kit onto the bench, but she didn't pull away. She didn't scream. Instinct told her that if she acted like prey—if she ran or fought—he would snap her neck.

Instead, she stayed perfectly still. She looked at the violet fire in his eyes and didn't blink.

"I’m not fighting you," she whispered. "I’m just here to help."

She slowly raised her free hand. She didn't aim for his face or his hands. She placed her palm flat against the center of his chest, right over his frantic, hammering heart.

The effect was instantaneous.

In the old myths, they called it the *Touch of the Hearth*. It was said that the only thing that could ground a wolf lost to the rage was the absolute absence of aggression.

Ada’s hand was cool. Her pulse was steady, drumming a slow, boring rhythm against his chaotic one. She wasn't a threat. She wasn't a challenge. She was just... there. Solid. Real.

Jax froze. The growl died in his throat, replaced by a confused whimper. The crushing grip on her wrist loosened just a fraction.

"That’s it," Ada murmured. She kept her hand on his heart, feeling the heat radiating through his skin. "Stay with me, Jax. Focus on the heat."

With her other hand, she opened the kit. She didn't remove her hand from his chest. She worked one-handed at first, pouring antiseptic onto a cloth.

"This is going to sting," she warned.

She pressed the cloth to the gash on his side. Jax hissed, his muscles jumping under her palm, but he didn't strike. He stared at her hand on his chest, as if it were an anchor chain keeping him from drifting into the storm.

Ada worked quickly. She threaded the needle. She needed two hands now.

"I have to move my hand," she told him quietly. "But I’m not leaving."

She pulled her hand back. Jax let out a sharp, distressed noise, his eyes flashing violet again.

"I’m here," she said, her voice firm. She touched his knee with her own, maintaining physical contact. "I’m right here."

She drove the needle through the tough skin of his side.

Blood welled up, coating her fingers. It was visceral work. Messy. But Ada had always been good at the messy parts. She stitched with efficient, practiced loops, ignoring the way Jax watched her. He wasn't watching the needle. He was watching her face.

He watched the way she bit her lip in concentration. He watched the way her eyelashes caught the harsh fluorescent light. He watched the way she didn't flinch, even when he twitched in pain.

Slowly, stitch by stitch, the violet began to bleed out of his irises. The tension in his shoulders dropped. The room stopped feeling like a cage and started feeling like a sanctuary.

He breathed in. He didn't smell the copper of blood anymore. He smelled her. Vanilla soap. Rainwater. And something quiet, like old paper.

It was the most peaceful thing he had ever smelled.

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