Chapter 265: His Wife Was Not Getting a Widow Discount

THORNE’S POV

Thorne had managed to stand, walk to the window, and sit down again without the nurse threatening him once.

He considered that progress. The nurse considered it the bare minimum required to keep him from being tied to the bed.

"You look pleased," the man said, taking the empty breakfast plate.

"I made it across the room."

"Try making it back without pretending you didn’t need the chair."

Thorne liked him. It was inconvenient, because liking a man made it harder to resent his instructions.

The dental clinic’s treatment room had three beds separated by curtains. His stood nearest the back window, where he could see the fenced yard and the shaded gate. A security patrol changed shifts there every morning. The city hadn’t stopped working simply because a group of men had decided his wife was theirs to take.

He held on to that. There were still people doing their jobs, still food coming from kitchens, still someone boiling water for the patients. The men who’d attacked Dove hadn’t become the whole world.

A short strip of scrap metal lay on his blanket. He had asked for it instead of taking something off the bed, mostly because Dove would have laughed at him for being a terrible guest.

He pressed his thumb against it and drew the edge into a smoother curve. The metal moved with the familiar pull of his power. A little work, careful work, then a pause before the ache beneath his ribs told him he’d done too much.

He rested the strip on his blanket and waited for the ache to ease. Dove would have taken it away if she saw him pushing too hard. He wanted to show her something finished when they met, not explain why he had pulled his wound open trying.

The scrap became a hook for his water bottle. He fixed it to the chair beside him and tested the hold. Useful. Small. Not enough to protect Dove from a street full of guns, but he could start with useful and keep going.

Ash appeared in the doorway while Thorne was examining it.

"You look disappointed," Ash said.

"I was hoping to make myself a new body. This one keeps complaining."

"The nurse says you can travel when the wound stays settled and the escorted vehicle gets here."

Thorne looked up too quickly and regretted it. "How soon?"

"They haven’t confirmed the vehicle yet. With support, short stretches, and no fighting."

"You’ve made it sound incredibly appealing."

Ash didn’t smile, but he brought the chair closer so Thorne wouldn’t have to reach for the bottle. That was the kind of thing he’d started doing when he thought nobody would notice. Thorne noticed everything connected to getting back to Dove.

They discussed the northern station. A proper vehicle was being arranged through the clinic, with room for him to lie partly back and a medical worker traveling with other patients. Ash would scout the roads and stay close enough to return. Nobody intended to strap an injured man to a dragon for a sightseeing trip just because it was faster.

Thorne would have agreed to almost anything that got him moving. Instead, he made himself ask the questions Dove would ask if she were there. How long between stops? Who carried the dressings? What happened if the road closed?

Ash answered without snapping. That worried Thorne more than snapping might have.

"She asked you to come," he said.

Ash’s eyes changed. There it was, the thing sitting under his skin.

"Yes."

"Don’t make her regret asking."

"I won’t."

Thorne wanted to believe him. He also wanted Dove to have every chance to change her mind without an angry dragon deciding her fear was an insult. Those wants didn’t cancel each other out.

"She’s going to be tired," he said. "And probably rude. I expect you to survive both."

Ash gave him a flat look. "I’ve met her."

"You’ve met her when she thinks she has to prove something. Wait until she trusts you enough to complain properly."

For a moment Ash looked as though Thorne had handed him something he didn’t know how to hold.

Thorne looked away first. He wasn’t going to teach another man every private thing about his wife. Some things Ash would have to earn himself.

The radio operator brought a message after lunch. Dove and Edrik had spoken through the relay the previous evening. They had seen the recovery truck again, had avoided following it, and would keep sending their location through the agreed operators. Dove had included instructions about eating and one very pointed sentence about not trying to be impressive while stitched together.

Thorne read that part twice, smiling so hard that the nurse told him he looked stupid.

"Married," he corrected. "It happens."

He dictated a reply, including the proposed travel day and the clinic’s conditions. Then he asked the operator to add that he had made something useful and would show her when they met. He described the crooked little hook until the operator laughed, then asked him to leave out the crooked part. Dove would notice soon enough when she could see it for herself.

He set the little bottle hook beside the note. When the vehicle came, he would take both with him, along with the clothes the staff had found and the dressings the nurse had packed. He wanted to bring more back to Dove than an injury for her to worry over. Even a small useful thing would do until he could manage something bigger without paying for it in pain.

In the afternoon he walked again. This time he reached the doorway and stood there while the yard gate opened for a delivery.

Two men came in carrying medical boxes. One asked the guard whether the wounded panther was leaving soon.

The question sounded ordinary until the guard asked who wanted to know.

"Just making room on the road," the man said. "Heard he’s got people waiting. How much can he do now? Walk? Shift?"

Ash stepped out of the treatment room behind Thorne.

The man’s hands tightened on the box, and the second man stopped smiling.

Thorne felt the small metal hook warm against his palm as he closed his fingers around it. Somebody wasn’t asking when he would recover.

Somebody wanted to know how helpless he still was.