26. Prey
The scraping gets louder. Then comes a low growl that makes my blood freeze.
Something lunges in the darkness. I feel the rush of air, hear the impact of bodies colliding. He shoves me hard to the side just as teeth snap where I was standing. My shoulder hits stone and I slide down the wall, trying to make myself smaller.
The sounds are worse because I can't see anything. Snarling. The thud of flesh against stone. Claws scraping. A sharp intake of breath—his? The other's? I press myself into the corner.
Something crashes near me. Too near. I crawl sideways, my hands hitting something wet on the floor. Blood. Has to be blood.
More growling, then the distinct sound of teeth meeting flesh. Someone—something—yelps.
"Shift." His voice cuts through the chaos, commanding.
The fighting continues. More snarling, another impact.
"I said shift." Lower this time. A pause. Heavy breathing. Then more growling, defiant.
"Now." The word comes from somewhere deeper. Something in it makes you want to obey.
Finally, I hear it—bones cracking, reshaping. The breathing changes, becomes more human. But instead of stopping, there's movement again. The stranger lunges—I hear the rush of movement, then the impact of bodies colliding. A grunt. They're grappling.
"What the fuck are you doing with a human?" The stranger's voice is hoarse while attacking.
I hear them separate, feet sliding on stone. "None of your concern." His voice is calm even while fighting.
"You bring prey down here?" The stranger laughs, harsh and brief, then I hear him moving again—toward me. "Didn't know your kind had gotten that desperate—"
The sentence cuts off. I hear the stranger hit the ground hard, gasping.
"Try again," he says quietly. "See what happens."
"Fucking traitor," the stranger gasps. But he doesn't move to attack again.
"Which pack?"
Silence.
"I asked you a question."
"Go to hell."
The stranger moves—I hear him scramble to his feet, trying to attack again. There's a brief struggle, then he's back on the ground, wheezing.
"Which. Pack."
More silence. Then: "Why would I tell you anything?"
"Because I'm the only thing between you and bleeding out in this hole."
The stranger laughs again, weaker this time. "Right. Like you'd help me."
"Answer the question."
A long pause. "North Mountain."
"That's Th—"
"Don't." The stranger cuts him off sharply. "You're really going to say names in front of her?"
Silence.
"Sit down," he says to the stranger. "Against the wall. Your wound needs cleaning before it gets infected. Although it looks like some of them already have."
"I'm fine—"
"No, you're not. That's a deep bite and you've been living in dirt for weeks. Sit down before you pass out and I have to carry you back."
I hear the stranger move, settling against the stone with a grunt.
Then footsteps coming toward me. In the darkness, I see them—eyes. They're glowing pale blue know.
His hand finds mine and he pulls me up. "You good?"
"I—yes." My voice shakes slightly.
"You're coming with me."
I hear the stranger mutter something else—something about filthy humans and traitors—but we're already moving. His other hand finds my elbow, guiding me forward.
"Watch your head," he says quietly, and I duck instinctively. "Step up here."
My foot finds a raised surface. Stone, rough under my shoe.
"Where are we going?"
"Supply storage."
We turn—I only know because he shifts his grip, pulling me slightly left. The air feels different here, cooler.
"It gets narrow here," he murmurs. "You'll need to stay close."
Narrow is an understatement. He's practically wrapped around me, one hand still in mine, the other on my waist now, steering me through what must be a tight passage. I can feel the walls on either side, just inches away.
Another turn. His hand leaves my waist to do something—I hear a lock clicking.
"Duck again," he says, and guides me through what must be a low doorway. His hand finds my shoulder in the darkness.
"You hurt?" His voice is quieter now.
"No." My voice comes out as a whisper.
His hand moves up to my face, fingers checking my cheek, my forehead. When he touches the side of my head where it's been hurting, I wince.
He mutters something under his breath. "Hold on.
" I hear him moving away from me, his footsteps careful in the dark.
There's a scraping sound, then a click. Then a faint orange glow flickers to life—barely enough to see by, but after the complete darkness, it feels like sunlight.
The first thing I see is his face. Blood runs from a gash above his eyebrow, and there's another cut along his jaw.
In the weak light, the blood looks black.
"Your face." The words come out as a whisper.
"It's fine."
"You're bleeding."
"It happens." He's already turning away, scanning the room. "Medical supplies should be..."
"Sit down."
He pauses. "What?"
"You heard me. Sit down before you bleed all over everything."
"Where are the medical supplies?"
A beat of silence. Then: "Left wall. Metal cabinet."
I cross the small space, yanking open the cabinet. Bandages, gauze, bottles with labels I can barely read in this light. My hands move without thinking, grabbing what looks useful.
"This is unnecessary," he says, but I notice he's actually sitting on what looks like an old chair.
"Stop talking." I bring the supplies over, setting them beside him. The cut above his eye is deep. "This needs stitches."
I turn back to the cabinet, frantically searching through drawers. "There have to be needles here somewhere. Thread. Something to—"
"—clean it properly first. Alcohol? Disinfectant? I don't even know what—"
"Listen—"
"—the right kind of thread is. Medical thread is different, right? It has to be—"
"Would you—"
"—sterile. Everything needs to be sterile or you'll get an infection and—"
His hand catches my wrist. "Stop."
"I need to get the thread." I try again, but as my eyes search the room, his hand slips from my wrist and cups the side of my face.
He turns my face toward him. Not roughly, but with purpose. His fingers curve around my jaw, thumb against my cheekbone.
I lose focus on my task again.
I try to concentrate. What did I want? Right, the cabinet—the supplies are right there—but his grip tightens. Not hard. Just firm. Keeping me here.
I look at his face. The cut above his eye is still bleeding, a slow line of red tracking toward his eyebrow. I wipe it away with my thumb, and he draws in a quiet breath — barely audible.
His thumb moves against my skin. Just that small touch and my breathing shifts, becomes uneven.He tilts my chin up slightly. His other hand finds my waist, and his fingers tighten there. Just barely.Then he guides my face closer to his, angling his head so I can see the wound better.
I swallow, trying to remember what I was doing. Right. The wound.
My hand finds his shoulder for balance as I lean in, peering at it through the dim light.
Oh.
It's already changing. Healing.
I stare, losing track of time as I watch his flesh mend itself.It's fascinating.Eventually, my gaze drifts back to his eyes.He's already watching me.
His thumb slides down from my cheekbone, pausing at the corner of my mouth.
I inhale sharply.
Two of his fingers are on my skin now. Then three. His hand slides further around my waist, until his whole palm is pressed firmly into the small of my back — warm, grounding, sending a shiver through my spine.
"See?" His voice has gone husky. Low enough that I feel it more than hear it.
I nod. Or try to. The movement is tiny because he's still holding my face, keeping me close. My fingers tighten on his shoulder. I should insist on cleaning it at least. But his thumb traces along my bottom lip now, barely touching, and whatever I was going to say disappears.
The hand on my back pulls me closer. Not much. Just enough that I have to catch myself, my other hand landing on his chest. I can feel his heartbeat. It's not as steady as his voice.
"Communicator." The way he says it—my title, my role—shouldn't affect me. But his voice drops even lower, and his fingers spread wider across my back, and I realize I've been holding my breath.
His forehead touches mine. "Breathe," he murmurs.
I am trying to remember how.
My inhale is shaky. When I exhale, he closes his eyes for a second. His hand moves from my face to my neck. Fingers sliding into my hair, thumb resting against my throat where my pulse is racing.