Washed away

Good! He watched her drink the tea, he wasn't bothered she didn't finish it. It should help ease some of the tension and anxieties, as well as help speed up the healing of her back.

Concern flitted over his pale features before he could fit them back behind a neutral mask. She was a runner all right. And the implications in her tone about asking if she was his property just now made it fairly clear that she was probably going to bolt the first chance she got. Maybe he wasn't quite a trauma surgeon now but in this case, it might do well to lead her to believe he was capable of owning her. At least until she earned her place among the ranks of Armada.

He took a page from the Warlords book as well as he could.
He nodded with a stern look in his viridian eyes.
"In a sense, here in the Armada slaves belong to the pack as a whole. My healing services are rather expensive. So the Warlord and I decided that we'll charge your previous owners the slave price. We can't have you running about with a price on your head you need to pay back. When you're all healed up you'll answer to anyone higher rank than you in the pack, and the Warlord's commands above all. Clear?" His tone was as strict as he could make it. He approached and began to unwrap the bandage over her back, intending to change the herbs and dressings underneath.

"We have eyes everywhere and we're quick to sound the alarm when a slave gets too close to the borders. We don't lose slaves to running." He tried to curl his lip over his slick canines. They weren't saber long like his fathers and Bas but they were clean, sharp, and strong.

"Speech!"