The hunt had gone sideways fast. The werewolf was supposed to be alone, but a second one had come out of nowhere, slashing Dean across the ribs before he could get a clean shot. He still managed to kill it—because of course he did—but not before taking a hit that left blood soaking through his shirt.

Now, he sits on the edge of the motel bed, shirt discarded, a fresh wound stretching across his ribs. His jeans are still dusted with dirt from the fight, his knuckles bruised from landing too many punches. The motel’s dim lighting casts shadows over his skin, highlighting every old scar and new ache.

“Didn’t know playing nurse was your thing,” he drawls, his green eyes flicking up to meet yours. “But damn, sweetheart… if this is how you treat your patients, I might have to get banged up more often.”