10. Morgan
MORGAN
I’m trembling as I climb the stairs on autopilot.
Partly from fear, but that’s taken a back seat to the sudden exhaustion. Nothing feels like it’s coming apart, thank fuck, but my body’s getting heavier with each step. Like it’s had too much excitement for one day and has given up.
I don’t blame it.
Why didn’t I go with Ash? Maybe it’s all bollocks. Maybe Birch and the others don’t care what happens to me now. It’s not like anyone would know I’d gone back with Ash, right? I could be headed back to his house right now, to the warmth of his home that’s always felt safe to me.
But it wouldn’t be, would it?
Not now.
Not if they’re telling the truth.
That thought stops me cold.
Will it ever be safe again? I told Ash I need to get away for a bit, but how long will that be exactly? A week? A month? How long will it take for the Feral Beasts to forget about me?
I’m hit with a vision of claws and teeth, of not human, and my legs give out altogether.
They’re not fucking human.
It hadn’t fully registered before, the enormity of that statement, but somehow seeing Ash has made it real.
The rumours are true.
Shifters are real.
And they know I know.
They have to, right? They made no attempt to hide what they were.
Jesus Christ, Morgan.
And they’re not the only ones, are they?
No.
I shake my head, shoving that thought as far away as I can, because I daren’t follow that thread.
It’s no good though.
Try as I might to block it from my mind, it won’t stay out.
Lynx growled back there.
He fucking growled.
I felt it vibrate in his chest, dragged from somewhere deep inside him.
Somewhere decidedly not human.
It sounds fucking ridiculous to even think it in my head, but on some level, I know I’m right. I feel it. There’s a wild energy about him, about the way he moves.
Just like Birch.
Oh god, I need to get out of here.
If Lynx is . . . then the rest . . .
And yet I still did as he said and willingly walked back in here.
I should’ve run.
I should’ve got on my bike and got the hell out of here.
And why didn’t you?
Fuck off, brain, you’re really not helping. I don’t know why.
But that’s not exactly true.
They saved me.
He saved me, and that stupid soft side of me wants to believe that Lynx is nothing like Birch and the others. Even if he is an arsehole.
Fuck, maybe it’s all in my head. The aftereffects of all those painkillers.
I have an active imagination. Maybe hitting my head warped my memories. Fuck knows I’ve watched enough horror films over the years to provide ample material.
I cling to that thought because the alternative is terrifying.
It’s too late, though.
My hands shake as I reach for my phone. I stare at them, willing them to stop, but they won’t cooperate.
A door slams from somewhere above me and I flinch, fear wrapping around me like a vice. I go still as voices filter down, holding my breath until they grow fainter and fainter until silence surrounds me again.
I can’t stay here. I know that, but I have no fucking clue what to do now.
The shaking gets worse, spreading throughout my whole body, and I’m cold suddenly, so fucking cold. Drawing my knees up, I wrap my arms around them and try to breathe through what I’m dimly aware of is an oncoming panic attack.
Hardly surprising, all things considered.
And I can do nothing to stop it.
My heart races. Each breath in and out is a struggle, a fight not to give in to the terror threatening to take hold.
One breath in.
One breath out.
And repeat.
I keep doing it, over and over until finally my body responds.
But I’m so fucking tired.
The stairs are hard and uncomfortable, the edge digging into my spine at this angle, but I need a minute before I get up.
A moment to get control.
Leaning back against the wall, I close my eyes, my whole body sagging with exhaustion.
I’ll stay here, just for a second.
“How long has he been here? He’s fucking freezing .”
Harsh, hissed words rouse me into semi-consciousness, but it’s too much effort to open my eyes.
“I don’t know.”
I’m jostled as arms slide underneath me, one under my knees, the other around my back.
“Someone must’ve noticed he was missing, for fuck’s sake .”
“We didn’t know he was coming back here. We thought he’d gone.”
I’m lifted off the cold steps like I weigh nothing, and then glorious heat surrounds me.
Awareness comes with each step.
Warm bare skin under my face, my hands.
The faint trace of sweat and . . . outside.
He smells like the forest. Soil and grass and wind.
Lynx.
I don’t open my eyes, but I know it’s him.
They’re still arguing, whoever’s with him, but I’m too tired or out of it to care. I tune them out, too focused on the way he’s holding me so fucking tight.
I’ve got a nagging feeling that I should be scared right now, but I can’t remember why. And honestly, I don’t want to because this feels too good, and avoidance is my friend. Always has been.
The brush of lips against my forehead is so faint I wonder if I imagine that too. The soft sigh I let out is real though because I feel safe in a way I can’t put my finger on.
The very last thing he should make me feel is safe .
But for now, I can ignore the fact that he doesn’t seem to give a shit whether I live or die.
That he pisses me off every time he opens his mouth.
For now, I’m going to rest my head against that solid chest and pretend that the incredibly hot guy carrying me up the stairs is someone other than a monster from my nightmares.
Because the alternative is too frightening to deal with.
The next time I wake, my head is unfortunately clear.
I know without opening my eyes that I’m back in that pretend hospital bed. Still in the Wild Wolves’ compound.
Still in a heap of fucking trouble.
I keep my eyes closed, letting my other senses do the work as I try to ascertain if I’m alone.
It takes effort to make my breathing stay the same, to take long slow breaths instead of the sharp quick ones I so badly want to.
Doesn’t stop my pulse taking off though, my heart beating so hard I’m surprised the sheets aren’t moving.
“I know you’re awake.”
My eyes fly open at the sound of his voice, all pretence of sleeping gone out the window, and now my breathing matches the frantic beat of my heart.
Lynx is sat next to my bed, muscled forearms resting on his thighs as he watches me.
He’s alone, I think. It’s hard to tear my eyes away from him to look around.
I’m hit with so many conflicting emotions I can’t grab hold of one long enough to know how to feel, how to act.
So I ignore them all. “How long was I out?”
“A while. It’s Wednesday morning,” he says, carefully.
Wow, almost a whole day then.
It takes a moment for the events of yesterday to hit me, but when they do, it’s with the force of a fucking train. My hands grip the bed sheets of their own accord, my mind suddenly offline.
Lynx cocks his head, watching me. I force myself to breathe, to find some calm before I have a heart attack.
“Are you scared of me?” His voice is soft, but his gaze is anything but.
It’s a loaded question.
We both know it.
I could pretend I don’t know exactly what he’s asking, probably should pretend, but I clearly have no sense of self-preservation, because I don’t want to. “You’re the same as Birch.”
There’s a moment of silence.
Then the shock on his face morphs into something darker. The air gets thicker, heavier as his hands curl into fists, and he hisses, “I am nothing like that cunt.”
I swallow past the lump in my throat, the terror trying to claw its way out. The words stick on my tongue. Once I say this, there’s no going back. But I have to know. “You’re a shifter. Just like he is.”
It’s like the whole house just stops and holds its breath.
Like me.
I’m frozen, caught in his unrelenting gaze, my heart rate through the roof.
This is it.
He’s either going to laugh in my face or rip my throat out. Neither all that appealing. Jesus what am I even thinking? The former, definitely the fucking former if I have to choose.
Lynx tilts his head to the side, like he’s listening.
Either that or deciding the best way to kill me.
I grip the bottom sheet, needing something to do with my hands to stop them shaking.
Then his expression changes, resignation, and is that... fear in his eyes?
Nah, can’t be.
If he is what I think he is, then I’m the only one who should be scared here.
And I am.
I so fucking am, but also... curious. What the hell is wrong with me?
“You saw them,” he says eventually. “In the forest Saturday night.”
My mouth is like sandpaper, so I nod instead and reach for the water at the side of my bed. My hand shakes so badly that some spills over the side of the glass, and he takes it from me with a huff.
“Here.” He holds the straw for me. “I won’t bite .” He grins as he says it, showing all his fucking teeth. His eyes shine with amusement, but it’s not the fun, easy kind. He’s laughing at me, not with me.
I’m thirsty, so as much as I’m desperate to shy away from him and slide to the other side of my bed, I force myself to lean forward and drink. It’s surprisingly cold, and for a second I forget everything else and drain the glass.
He waits until I’m finished and then sets the glass back down. “Why did you lie?”
I don’t bother pretending I have no idea what he means. What’s the point? “Because I didn’t think you’d believe me.”
“Fair point.” He clasps his hands, drawing my eyes to his bare forearms. A dusting of dark hair covers tanned, tattooed skin, the muscles underneath defined and obvious. I’ve always had a thing for forearms.
“How do you have tattoos? Don’t you heal from everything?” I have absolutely no idea where that came from. Maybe it’s shock?
Pretty sure I shocked him too because his eyebrows rise, and he stares at me like I’m insane.
“It’s not easy for us. But there are ways.”
There.
That’s as good as an admission.