Chapter 39
Kiara
“Think they’re going to kill each other?”
Zayd snorts. “Nah, but I wouldn’t be surprised if Devlin is sporting a couple of new stab wounds when we get home tonight.”
“... Fair.”
The two of them came to blows last night after Devlin announced he didn’t want Havoc stepping foot in his house, but knew he’d just stalk us and break in, so none of us could go home.
We ended up crashing at my old place and getting a terrible night's sleep, and honestly, as much as I empathize with them both, I’m overtired and already over it.
If they haven’t worked their shit out by the time I lock up tonight, they can have a slumber party on the couch and keep each other company while Jules, Stryker, Zayd, and I go to bed early.
Now that I opened the box Devlin so helpfully labeled ‘Snake Shit,’ and have six months worth of Havoc’s financial contributions stuffed in the bottom of my bag, we might even pick up a nice dinner first. The letters, though, are going to sit there collecting dust bunnies until I’ve had a good night’s sleep and picked up enough wine to deal with that emotional gut punch.
“Where do you want these?” Stryker lifts a box of syringes, and I point to the cabinet by Zayd’s legs.
The two of them have done wonders to whip this place into shape, and I’m feeling pretty optimistic until Stryker's power jumps erratically and blows out one of the fluorescent lights across the room.
“Shit.” He winces, brow furrowing as he shakes out his hand, staring down at it curiously. “Why don’t you two move onto the next room while I get this cleaned up and replace the bulb?” He grunts as Zayd suddenly tackles him to the ground, snarling in his face.
“What the fuck, man?!” Bucking him off, Stryker rolls and pins Z’s arms above his head.
He manages to jerk his head back a split second before Z breaks his nose with a vicious headbutt, but it gives Zayd the advantage to use his momentum against him.
The two of them wrestle for dominance, Z starting to shift, and Stryker sends a low grade shock through his body to stop him.
Zayd jerks as he’s equivocally tased, and I watch his eyes dilate further and start to panic. “Stryker, seriously, you need to let him go. Pretty sure whoever tortured him used cattle prods or tasers, he needs to remember he’s not back there anymore and is safe here.”
He grunts, bringing his knee up to pin Z’s chest to the ground. “Can't just let him go, babe. He's too out of it, he could hurt you or himself.”
“Well at least stop fucking shocking him! Zayd would never hurt me,” I declare adamantly. “Let me try and calm him down. Go stand in that corner, away from both of us so he doesn’t feel as threatened.”
Stryker’s lips press into a thin line. “He’d never forgive himself if he hurt you. Or me if I let him. It’s better if I just knock his ass out, Kiara, he’ll understand. Probably thank me for it when he wakes up.”
“I know,” I say, watching Z's wild eyes as he tenses up like he's expecting another shockwave of pain. “But he’s never going to get better if he doesn’t trust himself, either. This would only confirm he’s a threat and make him retreat further into his head later on.
So let’s try it my way, and if he doesn’t show signs of calming down, we’ll tranq him. Deal?”
It’s clear he doesn’t like the idea, but Stryker slowly releases him and retreats to the opposite side of the room from me. Enough distance that Zayd won’t feel like he’s a threat to him or his mate, but close enough to intervene if he freaks out again.
“Hey, it’s okay. Nobody here wants to hurt you.
” When he doesn’t respond, I slowly step closer, keeping my hands in plain sight.
I stumble to an abrupt halt when Zayd whips his head in my direction and releases a deep, warning snarl that emanates from the depths of his chest. It hurts more than I want to admit.
Sure, the day we met, he was in a similar state, lashing out because I was a stranger, but we’ve come so far since then. Or at least, I thought we had.
If he's so far lost in his head that he doesn't even recognize me, how the hell am I going to bring him back? Was all of the progress we made just a fluke?
Something flashes across his eyes before his face crumples in a tortured expression and he stumbles back into the counter, clutching his head. Breathing ragged, he releases a pained sound that pierces straight through my heart, his chest heaving.
“That’s it. Nobody’s upset with you, we’re on your side. Come back to me, Zayd. I need you.”
Each second feels like an eternity, but eventually, his breathing returns to a steadier rhythm and a little of the haze clears from his eyes. “Ki-”
The door beside me slams open, Killian storming into the room.
“Seriously, Kia? I have to hear through the rumor mill that you sold your house? What the hell is going on with you lately-” he stiffens, clocking the scene in an instant and switching to triage mode; calm under pressure, diffuse the situation, and calculate potential risks, all in the blink of an eye.
“Walk slowly, one at a time, but don't turn your back on him,” my brother orders, voice low, but laced with firm command.
“As soon as you're out of the room, Kiara, go call for help. You,” he says to Stryker, “find something to bar the door as soon as you’re clear.
We'll lock him in here for the time being.”
I see a flash of Stryker’s thumb racing across his phone screen, heart sinking when he nods in agreement to Killian’s plan.
“Kills, no, it's not like that. He's-”
“Kiara, go.” When I don’t spring into action, he treats me as if I were in shock, snatching my wrist and dragging me behind him, then shoving me towards the door without taking his eyes off the biggest threat in the room.
All progress I’d made getting through to Zayd is obliterated in an instant, his eyes turning pitch black as his pupils engulf his irises.
The vicious sound that tears out of his throat has the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end as he lunges forward, wrapping a hand around my brother’s throat and slamming him against the wall.
Claws start to emerge on his free hand braced against the wall, and I curse, rushing around the stainless steel exam table taking up the center of the room to the emergency drawer beside the sink.
Stryker sprints into action and bands an arm around Zayd’s throat, putting him in a chokehold and refusing to let go no matter how much he struggles and claws the hell out of his arm until it’s a bloody mess.
Hating myself for it, I stab the needle into Zayd’s thigh and inject enough tranquilizer to drop a horse.
With the way shifters metabolize medicine, it should knock him out for at least six hours.
As the fight drains out of him, Stryker eases Zayd to the ground. Killian falls to his knees, coughing and rubbing his throat.
Tossing the syringe in the sink, I crouch beside Zayd and push his wild, dark hair out of his face.
“Gods, he's going to be devastated when he wakes up.” If I’m lucky, a good, long sleep will help him reset and we can deal with this rationally once he wakes up.
Get him into therapy for his PTSD, or at least make sure he confronts his trauma and is aware of it so he can start working on coping mechanisms.
I don’t want to think about what I’ll do if he’s fully feral when he wakes up.
Killian coughs, rubbing at his abused throat. “Don’t mind me, just bleeding out here, thanks for asking.”
His hand trembles as he raises it to his head, but I swat it away and take over. “Don’t be stupid, you’re in no shape to heal yourself.”
Closing my eyes, I shove everything else out of my mind, concentrating completely on ensuring I heal every inch of the damage.
The state of the back of his head makes my stomach sink with guilt.
He must have smacked it hard when Zayd slammed him into the wall.
His neck is a swollen, bruised mess as well.
When something nags at the corner of my mind, I follow the thread down to his liver and make a mental note to punch him in the throat after it’s healed.
I’m not sure what he’s thinking, drinking enough to cause this sort of damage, but he’s an idiot not to have immediately healed it the next day after waking up with one hell of a hangover.
Let alone however many it took to reach these levels.
“You shouldn’t be healing me,” he grumbles.
“Your-” his breath hitches, and I cringe, knowing there’s no hiding it from him anymore.
“Kiara, what the actual fuck?! First I have to hear from strangers gossiping around town that you’re moving, and now, apparently, your condition has gotten significantly worse and you never said anything? What else are you keeping from me?”
Heart in my throat, I grab Zayd’s limp arm, pivoting it to show off the mark on his wrist. “What else was I supposed to do? He’s my mate, Kills. Of course I’m going to protect him.”
The look of pity that takes over his face will sear itself in my memories. “Fuck. I’m so sorry, Kia.”
“No, you don’t understand, he’s getting better! Today was just… it was a bad day.”
His sympathetic expression speaks volumes. “You know there’s no cure for feral shifters.”
Fuck sympathy. I’m tempted to punch him in his stupid face.
“Not yet, maybe, but I’m onto something.
When I found him, he was stuck in animal form, couldn’t speak, and flinched away from every touch.
Now he’s having full on conversations with us, and snuggles up to me any chance he gets.
He’s told me straight up that my scent helps him stay lucid, and if that’s the case, the answer isn’t going to be an easy cure, but it offers hope we didn’t have before.
If a feral shifter is exposed to their fated mate’s scent long enough, and eased out of whatever trauma triggered their animalistic instincts taking over… ”