Chapter 9 #2
By the time Stark reenters the room, I’m wrapping one round of gauze around my foot, hoping it doesn’t melt onto it. It takes time to cool in open air, but I refuse to let myself bleed. Pratt would have probably done the opposite.
He hands me the glass of water and I down it. It soothes some of the burning.
Slow and stiff, Stark lowers to his knees and lifts my leg back up. “You should have waited. You’re lucky there isn’t a lot of blood.”
“Next time, I think I’ll maintain my hold on the medical kit for future events.”
“I can give it back to you after tonight.” Taking the gauze out of my hands, he finishes wrapping my foot. “Your foot is on fire.”
I tilt back and sink into the chair. Screw the Elders’ dinner. “Why do you need it?” I ignore the fire comment because duh, it is practically on fire.
He tucks the end of the gauze into the bandage and smooths his hand over my leg before lowering it. “Nothing for you to be concerned about.”
My pulse speeds, and I scan over his entire body for any signs of an injury. He’s covered except his hands and neck. I continue staring, hoping maybe he’ll give me an answer, but he gets up, leaving the medical kit, and pulls down the sleeves of his charcoal button-up.
“Aloka, you need to come back to dinner.”
I rise in the seat. “No, thanks. It’s not like they’re going to let me leave.”
“Leave?”
“Yeah, go home. I have a home, a place that I love, where I’d like to go back to. Away from you.” I’m an invasion of his space. Less than a month has gone by and he’s already got in shit with the Elders’ Council because of me.
“You don’t get a choice in this.” He pulls me up and drags me down the hallway, letting go right before we get into the room. Fuck his lack of ability to be a gentleman sometimes.
Back at the table, I keep my eyes on my plate. I don’t want to do dinners with the Elders, or anyone. I want Pratt’s jokes back, and his overprotectiveness because he loved me, not to be surrounded by a table of werewolves who argue over if I should exist or not.
“Tomorrow, you need to stretch further into the south forest toward the treaty border. There are rumors of a camp being built. They have no right to hunt here, yet they’re hunting us, and we all know they won’t hesitate to shoot you in either form,” the white-haired Elder says.
“I want someone here with Aloka.” I know Stark is looking at me, but I avoid his gaze, and everyone else’s.
“She’s out of harm’s way in your home. Otis and Faira will be close by.”
“Lunin, that’s not enough. I want someone here, after the other week.”
“The pack will do her no harm,” another Elder says. His beard covers his face down to his chest and his eyebrows are thicker than a thumb.
“Excuse me?” I raise my voice over all the other discussions at the table.
“Yes?” The Elder who apologized for Pratt gives me the same sympathetic look from before.
Placing my fork down, I look down both sides the table, focusing on the white-haired Elder Lunin. “I’m right here. I’m not worried about being alone. If I can be alone at my house, that’d be preferred.”
“You’re not going to make it out there alone without your brother anymore. A human has no business in the Toridge territory alone,” Lunin says.
“I—”
“You can stay here and that’s an order.”
Even Stark settles back into his seat. Guess white-haired means cut-throat. I sink low and bow my head. What on earth was Pratt thinking? The full moon is soon, and how is this going to work?
The rest of dinner drags on long after everyone’s done eating, as they finalize more plans for the next day. The cohort is set for a group mission, making it perfect for my mini day adventure.
The Elder who sat next to me—Dino, I learn—gives me the lightest hug before he leaves, barely squeezing. If he was close with Pratt, I wish I knew more. If I could trust him, then he could persuade the rest of the Elders to change their opinion.
You don’t know what they’ll do, Pratt always warned me.
If only he knew this might be worse—hearing people talk about you like you don’t exist, then expecting you to be fragile.
“Thanks for the great dinner.” The largest Elder smacks the back of his hand across Stark’s torso as he walks past to the door.
Stark’s face tightens into something I’ve never seen before.
The rest of them shuffle out the door with small goodbyes and pleasantries.
The house quiets, and I sulk back to my bed.
Stark doesn’t knock, though I left my door open. He grabs the medical supplies and crosses the hallway, slamming the door behind him. How polite of him. I roll my eyes.
This might be my dumbest decision yet—so, so dumb—but I have to know.
I keep light on my feet and pause outside his dark, walnut-stained door, the black metal handle shy of an inch from my hand.
I should knock, but he barges in all the time.
There’s a small grunting noise from the other side.
That’s it—I’m taking a page out of Stark’s notebook.
I enter with no plans of turning around.
He’s standing in front of a large mirror angled in the corner of his room.
His room . . . it’s even more magnificent than the one I’ve been staying in.
The large four-poster bed is covered in more intricate versions of the running wolves and books.
There are even more books in here, and I want to run my fingers over the spines.
It smells even more like him—pine, wolf, and that mystery scent.
Another grunt comes from the corner and I drop my gaze from the shelves of words and knowledge.
Stark’s shirt is off, and wow—my mind wants to reach out to touch each line of his muscles.
In shape is almost an insulting way to explain it.
A large black wolf silhouette is tattooed across his right shoulder—of course he has a damn tattoo of himself.
I stifle a laugh and lower my gaze to the mirror.
Huge gashes slash across his chest. My breath stalls for a second, and I step closer.
“Get out.” He glares back at me in the mirror with the most intense expression.
Whatever. He can say what he wants, but I can help somehow.
I pick up the saline solution off the floor in front of the mirror and pour it onto a cloth as the temperature in the space rockets in the tight area around us. He can be as mad as he wants.
Rising up to his chest, I edge around to face him. His reflection towers behind me in the mirror watching as I assess the wounds and try not to think of the small space between his chest and the glass.
I don’t know how to do this without raising suspicion beyond comprehension, so I dab the wounds. He growls in response, but drops his own hands away.