27. Forbidden
I try to gather my thoughts. My hands are shaking slightly, and I clench them into fists to make it stop.
"I am breathing," I say, but even I can hear how unsteady it sounds.
He's still sitting, watching me.
"Liar."
The way he says it—calm, knowing—makes my chest tight.
"I think we should clean you up."My voice comes out quieter than intended.
He drops his hands from where they'd been resting on my neck and waist, leaning back in the chair. His eyes following my movements.
"Be my guest."
I turn back to the metal cabinet where I'd been frantically searching before, gathering the disinfectant bottle andclean clothI'd spotted earlier. My hands are steadier now that I have a task. When I turn back, he hasn't moved. Still watching. Still too calm.
I step closer to reach his face, but the chair makes it awkward. I end up having to lean in, one hand bracing against the chair's armrest for balance. The position puts me closer than I intended.
Carefully, I reach for his face. Even when I touch the wounds, he doesn't flinch. I try to focus only on cleaning away the traces of dried blood, but I can feel the weight of his attention on me.
"Why are you looking at me like that?" I finally ask, focusing on the right side of his face where faint marks are still visible beneath the dried blood. I wipe carefully, then changethe clothand start again with a fresh piece.
"What do you think?" he asks.
I dab at a particularly deep scratch near his temple. "I think you're playing with me."
His hand snaps up, fingers closing around my wrist. The movement is so sudden I freeze, but I keep my eyes on the wound.
He's quiet for a moment, then releases my wrist.
Something in the silence makes me glance up.
"I am not playing with you."
He doesn't elaborate, doesn't say anything more, but something in his expression holds me there.
"This is dangerous. Whatever this is," I say instead of reacting to his words.
"Why?"
I continue with the disinfectant. "Well, for starters, it's actually forbidden—"
"Forbidden," he says, his voice dropping to a low rumble.
I think back to my studies. The laws are clear—humans and wolves interact only when fighting each other or "defending themselves." That's it. Communicators are the sole exception, and we're restricted to official duties only—not that anyone would dream of doing otherwise.
Being this close, and not killing each other in the process, is not just forbidden. It's unheard of. In all the texts I studied, all the history lessons, there's never been a case of a human and wolf... well interacting like whatever this is.
"We're both already called traitors." He says.
"Yes, but maybe we shouldn't complicate things."
I pour the alcohol directly on a cut along his jaw. He doesn't even blink.
"Is that what you want? To not complicate things?"
"What I want is irrelevant."
He tilts his head slightly, eyes never leaving me as I work. "It's not. That's why we're here, right?"
"Maybe, but as you can see, everything started going downhill when I arrived."
He growls. The sound low, deep in his chest. But I continue anyway.
"It was my want for peace that got us deeper in this mess, right? Didn't you laugh at me when I first told you that peace was still possible?"
I don't dare look him in the eyes. I'm embarrassed by my naivety, even if it was only a few days ago. I don't believe in violence, but after everything that's happened, I can't really believe in peace either.
"Do you see me laughing now?" he asks, his voice serious. I can see the muscles tense in his neck.
"Communicator," he says, but I still don't meet his gaze. Instead, I continue cleaning the cut with probably more attention than necessary.
"I am not laughing now," he repeats, and this time reaches up to turn my chin with his hand, forcing me to meet his eyes.I pause, the bloodstained cloth hovering between us.
"I like that you believe. I like that you, despite how everyone treated you—humans or wolves—treat everyone with respect."
He leans forward, bringing his face directly in front of mine, then turns my head slightly and whispers into my ear. "I like that you stopped me earlier. I like that you have the instinct to protect others, even though they're just stupid humans."
His hand drops away from my face.
I don't know what to say to this.
"I want too much." I've never actually said that out loud before, but it's true.
"Like what?" he asks simply.
"I want peace. I want justice. I want to see my aunt. I want to... belong somewhere." I stop myself. This is getting way too personal.
As a Communicator, I'm always between the worlds of humans and wolves, but never part of either.
"And what about right now?" His voice is quieter. "What do you want right now?"
I stare at him, my mouth opening slightly, but no words come out. The question hangs in the air between us.
He stands up from the chair abruptly, and I stumble backward, startled by the sudden movement. In the small room, he seems to take up all the available space.
"I don't know," I whisper. My heart is racing.
He nods once, then steps around me toward the supply cabinet.
"When you figure it out," he says, his voice back to that calm, controlled tone, "tell me."
I watch as he pulls out medical supplies—bandages, antiseptic, what looks like antibiotics. For the stranger.
"We should go back," he says without looking at me. "He needs these."
I'm still standing there, off balance and unsure.