The Scar

“You look like you've seen a ghost, Miss Sinclair.”

My pulse spiked wildly beneath Ronan’s thumb. Around us, the reception hall blurred—the glow of chandeliers, the murmur of high-society chatter, the clink of champagne glasses all receding until nothing remained but him and only the unbearable weight of his hand against mine, warm and a thousand shades of wrong.

I searched his face for Varek and found nothing. No anger. No spark of recognition. Ronan Draven was mildly amused with one dark eyebrow arched above a carefully controlled half-smile.

Forcing a breath into my lungs, I called upon years of training to bury what I couldn't afford to feel. The past was dead.

I slipped my hand from his grip with deliberate ease, as if the contact hadn't sent a jolt straight to my ribs.

“Maybe you remind me of someone,” I said, my voice surprisingly steady.

“Hopefully someone pleasant?” He tilted his head.

Before I could answer, Dr. Kane appeared at my elbow with his usual brisk efficiency.

“Sorry to interrupt, but the Head of Thornwood needs Ivy for a moment.”

Ronan gaze lingered on me for a while.

“Do you mind?”

“Of course not.”

He reached for my hand again, brushing a light, brief kiss against my knuckles. “Enjoy the rest of your evening, Dr. Sinclair.”

He turned and melted smoothly into the crowd, moving with the unbothered confidence of a man who owned every room he entered.

By the time I finished clarifying the Draven delegation’s medical protocols for the hospital director, twenty minutes had passed. I returned to my seat, but no matter how hard I tried, my gaze kept drifting back across the room to Ronan.

Now, I was glad Grayson couldn't make it tonight. He would have noticed the way I kept watching another man. He would have asked questions—and after three years together, I still hadn't told him what happened at the Eastern Border.

I stared down at the engagement ring on my left hand. Why now? Why did this ghost have to show up now?

Late that night, dinner sat untouched while I crouched on my bed, staring into the glare of my laptop screen.

Varek. Eastern Border. Hunter Guild records. Ronan Draven. I ran the names in circles until a yawn finally cracked my jaws open. Checking the time, I had spent two hours searching only to find the same answers I already knew.

Four years ago, my father had picked me up from the border because I was too shaken to drive. The next morning, he had insisted that I report the false emergency dispatch that lured me into the danger zone. The official investigation blamed a system failure—corrupted routing data that had accidentally directed a Thornwood healer into a high-risk sector.

Days later, the Hunter Guild officially confirmed

Varek’s death.

I had believed it because I checked him myself. No pulse. No breath. Nothing. He had died in that clearing.

I had been sure of it for four years. Until tonight.

The next morning at Thornwood, Dr. Kane tossed a chart onto my desk. “Visiting Draven official needs an assessment. Old silver exposure—says it’s interfering with his shift-healing.” He gave me a sharp look. “It’s high priority.”

I opened the folder. RONAN DRAVEN.

I thrust it right back at him. “Please, Dr. Kane. Reassign this.”

His eyebrows shot up. “You’re our lead specialist on shift trauma and complex supernatural injuries.”

“There are other doctors—”

“And I’m giving him to you.”

Ronan arrived promptly, but his security detail remained in the hallway when he entered my examination room.

Overhead, the scent-control filtration hummed quietly, stripping the air of blood, fear, and wolf dominance.

“Dr. Sinclair.”

“Mr. Draven.”

He was infuriatingly composed—as if he hadn't held my wrist the night before and spoken of ghosts.

“Have a seat,” I said, gesturing to the examination bed.

He obliged without a word while I kept my eyes fixed on his file. “Your records mention silver complications. How old?”

“Four years. Give or take.”

My fingers tightened on the folder. “And it still affects you?”

“During shifts. Healing slows, and old wounds tend to reopen.”

I gave a tight nod, pretending the words hadn't lodged like ice beneath my ribs. “I’ll need to examine the area.”

Ronan stood and unbuttoned his shirt, sliding it off his shoulders.

I drew in a sharp breath.

Faded scars littered his torso, but one immediately drove the air from my lungs: high on his chest, jagged and uneven. A healed blade wound.

I knew that scar. I remembered the exact angle of the entry, the dense resistance of flesh, his strangled gasp, the desperate grip of his hand around my wrist.

In a flash, I was twenty-one again. Blood on my hands. Varek collapsing at my feet, his pulse entirely gone.

“Problem, Doctor?”

Ronan’s voice dragged me back. I forced my expression back into professional neutrality and stepped closer. I pressed my fingers to the skin around the scar, unable to stop the slight tremor in my touch.

He noticed.

I knew I shouldn't ask but I did anyway.

“How did you get this?”

His eyes flicked down to where my hand rested over his chest, then met mine.

“A blade.”

My throat was dry as dust. “When?”

A pause stretched between us.

“Four years ago.”