The Cut

POV: James

James watched her work and found himself impressed despite everything. He'd always known she could cook - the whole pack lived off proof of that daily - but he hadn't understood how efficient she actually was until he saw it up close. Meat prepped in what felt like seconds, vegetables already half diced by the time his brain caught up to what she'd started. Her hands moved with a precision that seemed almost unconscious, like her body had memorized the motions long before her mind had ever agreed to them.

Years of practice does that to a person. Or years of getting hurt for being slow.

The thought soured his mood before he could stop it. He found himself wondering how many times she'd been forced to move fast, and for whom, and what had happened on the occasions she hadn't moved fast enough.

A strand of hair slipped loose from the bun she always wore, curling against her cheek, and his hand moved before his brain gave permission, reaching out to tuck it behind her ear.

She flinched violently.

The knife skidded sideways and bit into her thumb, and blood welled up fast against her pale skin.

"Ouch." Trishelle's whole body curled inward, hand clutched to her chest, eyes squeezed shut like she was bracing for something far worse than a cut.

She thinks I'm about to hit her.

That realization landed like a fist to his own gut. He pulled his hand back, disappointment settling somewhere behind his ribs that he didn't have a name for yet. A dozen questions crowded his throat - who had taught her to flinch like that, how long she'd lived expecting pain instead of comfort - but he swallowed them all down. Then he saw the blood actually welling up between her fingers and every other thought fell away.

He grabbed a kitchen towel and reached for her hand.

She resisted at first, small and stubborn, but he was stronger, and she seemed to decide fighting him wasn't worth whatever price it might cost her. That thought alone made something in his chest tighten uncomfortably. He tsked under his breath at the sight of the wound once he got a proper look - small, but deep enough to worry him. He tugged her to the sink, ran water over the cut to clean it, dried it carefully, and peeled the towel back to check the damage.

The bleeding had already slowed. The wound itself hadn't.

She's really an Omega. A regular wolf would've healed this in minutes.

It bothered him more than a small pink line on someone's thumb had any right to. He turned her hand gently in his, studying the cut as if staring at it long enough might will it closed. Without thinking it through, he lifted her hand to his mouth and blew a soft breath across the cut.

Trishelle blinked up at him, clearly caught off guard by the gesture. Color rose faintly in her cheeks, though whether from embarrassment or something else, he couldn't tell. "Umm. Alpha James, it's okay. It's just a flesh wound. I can put a bandage on it."

He barely registered the words. He was too aware of how soft her skin felt under his fingers, how the pads of her palm were rough with calluses that told their own story about the hours she spent working. His thumb traced over one without meaning to, memorizing the texture as though it might explain something about her he hadn't yet earned the right to know. Some reckless part of him wanted to press his lips to that same warm palm, and before he'd fully decided to do it, he was already lifting her hand higher.

The kitchen door swung open.

Richard walked in, stopped dead, and took in what had to be the strangest thing he'd seen all week. His Alpha, halfway to kissing the kitchen Omega's hand, and said Omega just standing there letting it happen without a hint of protest.

The second they registered him, they pulled apart fast enough that James nearly stumbled. To his own irritation, he was the one who ended up looking away, heat crawling up his neck, while Trishelle just looked confused more than embarrassed, as though she couldn't quite work out why he'd let go so abruptly.

"Don't mind me," Richard said, clearly biting back a grin, "just grabbing some refreshments. Hey, Trash, can you - "

A growl cut him off before he finished the sentence, low and dangerous, rumbling straight through the pack link.

Her name is Trishelle. James snapped it hard enough that he felt Richard flinch on the other end of the connection. You got that? Don't let me hear you call her that disgusting nickname again. In fact, make sure everyone else knows it too.

"Yes, Alpha," Richard answered aloud, glancing between the two of them like he was trying to solve a puzzle he didn't have all the pieces to. It struck him as strange, considering James was the one who'd coined that nickname back when they were pups, but he wasn't about to say that out loud. He redirected instead. "Can I get refreshments for me and the five guys on patrol with me?"

Trishelle nodded and got to work packing water, juice, and a handful of snacks without a word, though James noticed the faint tremor still lingering in her bandaged hand, and hated himself a little for having caused it.