Mated to Her Alpha Instructor Chapter 67

Eileen

After finishing dinner in a comfortable atmosphere with Regis, I retreated upstairs to review the materials Ms. Ward had given me.

The infection patterns made no sense.

I'd been staring at the same diagram for twenty minutes, cross-referencing it with three different herbology texts spread across the desk. The wounds showed characteristic darkening at the edges, gray-purple discoloration spreading outward in irregular patterns that suggested some kind of toxin. But none of the standard antidotes seemed effective, and the case notes mentioned a strange burnt-herb smell beneath the decay.

*Like scorched wormwood*, one healer had written. *But sharper. More medicinal.*

I chewed my lip, flipping to another page. If it was wormwood-based, that suggested a deliberate poisoning rather than simple infection. But what combination would resist both purification salves *and* regenerative treatments?

"You're frowning."

I jumped, nearly knocking over my tea. Regis stood in the doorway, still in his teaching leathers, watching me with that soft expression he got when he thought I was working too hard.

"Just thinking," I said, gesturing at the mess of papers. "These infection cases—they don't match any pattern I've seen before."

He crossed the room, settling a hand on my shoulder as he peered at the diagrams. "Ward gave you access to the border reports?"

"She asked for volunteers to research treatment options." I tilted my head back to look at him. "I thought... maybe I could help. If I can figure out what's causing this—"

"You want to go to the observation ward."

It wasn't a question. I nodded, watching his expression carefully. "Ms. Ward said I'd need supervisor approval. She didn't think the administration would allow students into active treatment areas."

Regis was quiet for a long moment, his thumb tracing absent circles on my shoulder. Through the bond, I felt the weight of some decision being made, considered from multiple angles.

Finally, he moved to the writing desk, pulling out Academy letterhead. "I'll write you a pass."

"Is that okay?"

"Of course." He was already writing, his penmanship precise and deliberate. "Your healing instincts are better than half the certified practitioners I've worked with. If you think you can contribute to this research, I'm not going to let bureaucracy stop you."

I stood, moving to his side as he signed the document with both his personal seal and his rank designation. The sight of it—his name, his authority, used to open doors for me—made my throat tight.

"Won't this cause problems for you?" I asked quietly. "If people find out you're giving me special access—"

He set down the pen, turning to cup my face in his hands. "The only problem would be letting your talent go to waste." His thumbs brushed my cheekbones. "You're my mate, Eileen. You saved my life. If anyone questions why I believe in your abilities, they can answer to me."

The weight of his faith settled warm in my chest. I leaned into his touch, letting my eyes drift closed. "I just... I saw it in the forest, you know. When I found you. The way the corruption was spreading through your system—and everything I’d learned from that book came rushing back to me in an instant. It was like the knowledge simply took over, telling me exactly how to save you."

"You are brave and brilliant." His forehead pressed to mine. "And now you're going to use that same gift to help others. That's what healers do."

"I'm not really a healer," I whispered. "Not like the certified ones. I just... I read a lot. And I remember things."

"You have instincts they'll never develop in a classroom." He kissed my forehead, soft and lingering. "Trust yourself the way I trust you."

---

The observation ward smelled like my nightmares.

Mira wrinkled her nose as we stepped through the heavy oak doors, the scent of medicinal herbs barely masking the sweet-sick odor of infected flesh. Moonstone lamps provided dim illumination—bright light apparently agitated the wounded—casting everything in shades of blue-gray.

Low moans echoed from the treatment rooms. Somewhere nearby, bandages rustled. A healer's tired footsteps shuffled past.

"You sure about this?" Mira muttered, gripping her notebook like a shield.

I wasn't. But I thought of Regis, of Kieran, of all the warriors who stood between us and whatever was out there. Of the child growing inside me, who deserved a world where infected wounds didn't mean slow death.

"I'm sure," I said, and pushed forward.

---

The first warrior we approached was a Beta with his arm in heavy bandaging, leaning against the wall with the casual defiance of someone who refused to lie down. His eyes tracked us with predatory awareness.

"They're sending student girls now?" He laughed, sharp and bitter. "Last 'specialist' they brought in nearly killed me with her experimental treatment. Fever for three days."

His companion, a larger male with obvious leg wounds, fixed me with a cold stare. "Can you even sense infection? Or do they just hand out healer badges to anyone these days?"

I felt Mira bristle beside me, but I kept my voice steady as I pulled out Regis's authorization. "I'm here to observe and document. I won't touch your wounds without permission."

The arm-wound warrior snatched the paper, scanning it quickly. His expression shifted—not to warmth, exactly, but to grudging respect. "Alpha Regis Vane vouches for you." He handed it back. "His word carries weight. But if you're here for show, don't waste our time."

"I'm not." I crouched down, meeting his eyes. "Can you describe the pain? Is it constant or does it come in waves?"

He blinked, surprise flickering across his scarred face. "Waves. Worse at night. Burns like acid when it flares."

"And the smell?" I leaned closer without touching, breathing carefully. "Has it changed since the initial treatment?"

"How would I—" He stopped, nostrils flaring. "Actually, yeah. It's sharper now. Less rot, more... chemical?"

I pulled out my notebook, scribbling rapidly. Mira positioned herself beside me, ready to record anything I might miss. The warrior watched us work with something approaching curiosity.

"You really think you can figure this out?" he asked after a moment.

"I'm going to try." I glanced up, holding his gaze. "You fought to protect us. The least I can do is fight to heal you."

Something in his expression softened. "What do you need to know?"

---

By the third interview, we'd established a rhythm. I asked questions, Mira took notes, and the warriors gradually opened up about their symptoms. The patterns were becoming clearer: pain cycles that matched moon phases, discoloration that spread faster during physical activity, that persistent burnt-herb smell underlying everything.

I was examining a particularly nasty infection—the edges blackened, the center weeping yellowish fluid—when familiar voices cut through the ward's hushed atmosphere.

"This is Blake's room, right? The private one?"

My stomach dropped. I knew that voice.

Mira's hand found my arm as Derek and Celeste appeared in the doorway. Blake, apparently, had been given an isolated recovery room due to his father's influence—standard procedure for higher-ranked families, regardless of injury severity.

Celeste's eyes widened when she spotted me kneeling beside a warrior's cot, notebook in hand. Her shock lasted exactly three seconds before her expression curdled into something ugly.

"Oh my goddess," she breathed, loud enough for half the ward to hear. "They let the wolfless girl play healer now? Blake, you're so lucky you got the private room. Can you imagine if *she* was studying your wounds?"

The warrior beside me stiffened. I felt his trust wavering, doubt creeping back into his expression.

Derek had the grace to look uncomfortable. "Eileen? What are you doing here?"