We all make mistakes

Perhaps he had been too focused on his injuries and the slave before to notice her, or perhaps she had been practicing tiptoeing around light-sleeping babies for a few months now, slipping in and out of the den so as not to disturb naps and the like.

Her assessment of the sutures was critical. She didn't know if she wanted to say something about them. To say they were too tight and should be redone would punish both Teegra and Basilisk. To say nothing would result in raised scars like her own first attempt upon his belly. But they were done now. Though she couldn't help the stab of wanting to speak up, punish them both for their time together, punish them for hiding away from her, for connecting. But she had promised to endure this business, and it was hardly fair to the girl.

She had to smirk at how his voice sounded, mild amusement breaking through the jealousy. She hated this strange feeling, she didn't know how to get around it, the strain, the accusations, the uncomfortable wall rising between them.

"They smell wonderful, Teegra," Ignita commented absently instead, her eyes still roving over her warlord's gruesome stitches. The cooking buns were a quaint smell under the scent of blood and antiseptic.

In the span of the slave leaving and before her returning Ignita had run her paw over his cheek fur, unmarred by wounds, and murmured, "Why didn't you wake me? I thought you only let me treat you." She would have more words for Teegra as her eyes watched the slave return and work on the book.