Chapter 6
Chapter
Six
I’d promised I’d do whatever I could to fix this for him. If I didn’t die first.
I’d made the promise the night I found him and I might not be able to do much, but I could keep my word.
I swallow again, the rock lodged in my throat grating, the door holding firm despite the way Grayson shakes it like a blistering tornado.
Finally, I find my voice and force it past the obstruction. “Grayson, it’s okay. Go back to bed. Rest. You need to let your body recover.”
And please don’t shift again.
Instead of listening, he busts the door open, the chair flying across the floor and hitting the couch. It topples on its side.
Grayson, fully human, stands in the doorway framed by shadows. He grips the doorframe to stay upright and his gaze sharpens, landing on me. Through me. He’s got a sheet wrapped around his lower half and tied at his waist where the claw marks from the earlier attack are slowly knitting.
The cast iron pan trembles in my weak grip but I’m still standing, still watching. Marking his movements.
His gaze lands on mine and holds steady even when he goes down, fingers curling against the wood, helpless.
He shakes his head, breaking eye contact. And without looking up at me again, says, “What’s going on? My head hurts.”
“How do you feel besides the migraine?” I hazard.
A bitter laugh falls loose. “Bad. Worse than ever.”
“What’s the last thing you remember?”
“The beast at the window trying to break in.”
If he’s really moon-mad, then wouldn’t the symptoms have shown by now? He’s already been through his first change, all five minutes of it. Or a whopping ten if I’m feeling generous.
I weigh the options in the back of my mind.
If he’s mad, I’ll have to kill him for real.
If he’s not…we’ll deal with this together. I only know that once we’re out of this, I’ll be keeping a weapon on me constantly and learning how to wield it effectively.
No more surprises.
No more frying pans.
Grayson groans and lowers to his side, curling into the fetal position. “There are voices in my head. They’re blurring together, like I’m in the middle of a crowd.”
I startle. “You’re hearing voices?”
“I can’t make them out but they won’t stop. They’re so loud. Then soft.”
One of the earliest signs of moon madness. “I hit you in the head with a cast iron pan. No wonder you’re hearing things. Are your ears ringing?”
“Oh yeah.” A pause stretches. “You hit me?”
My chest sags with relief that is too early to feel. “I had to. You left me no choice. Do you remember anything?”
“That monster crawled through the window,” he says. “Then there was pain. Not as bad as the pain I’m in now. What happened?”
His gaze drops unerringly to the white washcloth around my arm and I shift it behind me, hiding the makeshift bandage.
“I must have knocked the memories right out of your head.” My grin might as well be made of papier mache. “As long as you rest, you’ll feel better.”
Fingers tense and curling, I halfway wonder if his answer will undo me.
I wait for him to do something other than stare at me with an almost clinical detachment while tiny bombs go off in my lower abdomen.
He peeks one eye open. “What happened?”
“You, ah, you changed,” I say at last, falling over the words. “The stress of the wolf breaking in finally forced the shift. You were a full wolf for about five minutes.”
“You’d think I’d be able to remember it.”
“I’ve never heard of anyone else forgetting their first time but it’s not like bitten wolves are all that…common…in Ironwood.”
I shuffle from foot to foot, the awkwardness like tiny popping bubbles in my chest is a stark contrast to the bombs. They’re easier to handle when I’m not looking at Grayson directly, when there’s some space between us.
He clears his throat and the floor vibrates when he stands, his first step taking him closer. My attention drops to the white sheet knotted at the V of his abdomen. A patch of dark hair speckles a line beneath his bellow button, down to his—
My mouth waters and I glance away. His bare chest doesn’t bother me.
Although bother isn’t the right word. Not if I’m being honest.
Another halting step follows the first. “Why did you hit me with a frying pan?” He’s searching for an answer we’ll both have to reconcile.
“I didn’t want to.”
“I didn’t ask if you wanted to. What did I do, Mandi? What did I do to you?” His voice drops to a throaty growl.
Grayson drags in a deep breath and when he’s standing close enough for me to melt with the heat rolling off his skin, I cave.
“It was nothing. Really. Nothing I couldn’t handle, anyway. You were just reacting to the force of your first shift. It will get easier with ti—”
I break off on a squeal when he reaches behind me, another inhale pinpointing the source of my stress. He grabs my wrist and gently drags it up to inspect.
Silence stretches.
His eyes flash gold and his pupils sharpen to deadly points.
“It’s nothing,” I insist. My tongue ties itself into knots. “It’s fine.”
His grip softens as he inspects the bandage and the tape tied around the washcloth to keep it in place.
“It’s not fine, Mandi. It’s not fucking fine.” He won’t let me go. “Because I can’t promise I’ll never hurt you again.”
Oh. “I’m not expecting promises.”
You learn not to expect them in the first place.
“You should. You deserve them. I’m so sorry.” He traces the pad of his thumb against my pulse point and my heartrate spikes. “Why did I do this?”
“You’re angry.”
“Of course I’m angry!” The topaz color of his eyes brightens, and I suck in a startled breath. “I hurt you. I’m pissed and I’m scared and I have no control over myself.”
A tremble, rooted at the place he’s touching me, spreads through the rest of my body. “I know how to take care of myself.” Lies.
“That’s not the point,” he growls.
From what I’ve learned about Grayson, he’s like me.
He’s the kind of person who lives his life walking the knife’s edge of control. We recognize it in each other, two stranded survivors on the same desert island.
“I’ll do my best not to let it happen again.” Grayson slowly pries his fingers loose and lets his arm drop. “But we’re going to have to address this.”
“It’s addressed. Consider it done,” I scrabble. “Now will you please get some rest? I don’t want to have to tie you down.”
His expression speaks volumes. “I mean we have to address your terrible job with, what, a washcloth?”
I shake my head. “I’m a wolf. I’ll heal fast. But maybe you can find something to wear? Please?”
Grayson pauses and his fingers tap out a familiar but distant melody on the side of his thigh. “Something bothering you?”
There’s a good excuse in there somewhere, rattling around in my head. If only I can find it.
He chuckles at my pause. “I’ll see what our cabin owner friend has in his dresser. Hopefully something will fit me.”
“That’s the bad part about shifting,” I call out once he’s back in the bedroom and I’m able to breathe again. “If you aren’t anticipating it, you can ruin an entire wardrobe.”
“Noted.”
He emerges minutes later. Red flannel drapes across his shoulders but the corduroy pants are a few inches too short for his legs. Grayson is built.
He has to be.
I stare anywhere but at him as he holds his arms out to the side
“This better?”
“Guess our guy is a flannel fan.”
“I’ll have to write him an IOU.”
I turn in time to watch Grayson scratch his head. Exhaustion drags the skin beneath his eyes down to the sharp points of his cheekbones and the hollow caverns beneath. The change will do that to you, I’m told.
My arm throbs. I clutch it close, Grayson heads into the bathroom and emerges with the discarded first aid kit.
He points to the couch. “Sit. I’m going to boil some water. We’ll clean you up properly.”
He needs something to focus on, a distraction, and I’m the only thing he’s got. Unfortunately, it’s kinda hard to keep the distance I need when he’s intent on me.
“You’re not obligated to take care of me. I’m fine. We need to make a plan to get out of here before that thing comes back.”
“I’m not obligated to do shit. I’m here because I want to. I came to find you. Sit.”
It’s shame. Pure, unfettered shame when he returns with a small bowl of steaming water and another clean washcloth. I haven’t budged.
He balances the bowl on the low table he didn’t destroy and takes me by the shoulders like I’ll break. Like he’ll be the one to shatter me.
I drop on the couch and groan when the cushions absorb my weight.
The shiver grows stronger as Grayson kneels in front of me, unwinding the tape keeping the washcloth in place. His face gives nothing away when it falls and he gets his first glimpse at the bite.
Please don’t apologize again.
I’m not sure what’s worse. The deft way he handles the situation or the flash of guilt in the furrowing of his brow. He keeps it under control with, but I noticed.
I’m looking too closely.
“It’s from football practice, in case you’re wondering,” he says into the silence.
“We get hurt all the time. Me and the rest of the guys. There wasn’t always someone around to handle stuff for us when we had to get back on the field within minutes.
You learn things. Especially when you take it upon yourself to attend a first aid class. Sure helps.”
“It’s good you’re not skeeved out by blood.”
I wince at the first brush of hot water on the edges of the tear.
“It’s one of those things you learn to live with. If the skeeve is there, you tune it out pretty quickly,” he replies.
He cleans the dried blood I hadn’t gotten to earlier, pausing to mark the pink edges already closing around the wound.
“Wolves heal quickly. You probably have a headache right now where I hit you but that will fade too.” Unless the moon madness changes things.
No one is entirely sure anymore. The disease is spreading like wildfire. It’s easier to call it a curse when we have no idea where it came from originally or what it’s doing here.