Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Grayson
I keep trying to remember if she was angry.
When I drove her home the next morning, all she did was curl up in the passenger seat and beg me not to breathe so loudly. I haven’t heard a word from her about the dress. I know it was delivered to her, but she hasn’t answered my messages either.
Was she pissed off that I sent the dress?
She seemed pretty upset that she ruined it since it belonged to her friend.
I thought I was being helpful. But why skip out on the team sessions?
She needs the money. I really can’t see her being so irresponsible.
Maybe that’s why I’m driving up here. It’s been a week now. Irritation has morphed into worry.
If I overstepped, she should just come and yell at me. Why is she avoiding me like this?
The building is a four-story walk-up in the oldest part of the city. The lobby door is propped open with a rock. I take the stairs to the third floor, and I’m halfway down the hall when something stops me cold.
Blood.
I’ve never scented her blood before. But my beast knows it the way it knows its own heartbeat.
My wolf is sitting up inside me, its fur standing on end. Blood is pounding in my ears. My whole world slows down for a moment as the door that I’ve forcibly kept closed for the past two months is forced open, my wolf clawing at it.
No.
No, it’s not possible.
My claws unsheathe as my wolf’s rage fills me.
My mate’s blood.
Every sense I have locks on to the door at the end of the hallway. Three heartbeats, and one of them is weak and stuttering. My wolf howls in fury, and my body is already moving, throwing itself against the door before I’ve made the decision, uncaring of how the impact forces it off its hinges.
The scene I burst into has me seeing red. Two large men are crowded around a figure on the floor. One of them has his boot raised. Miranda is curled on her side, her body limp as if all the fight has left her.
My hands shift before I’ve crossed the threshold, claws out.
The first man turns at the sound, and I am already on him. My hand closes around his throat, and the force of it drives him back into the wall. Up close, I can smell the blood on his hands.
My mate’s blood.
The wolf goes to a place I haven’t been in years, something beyond rage, something that doesn’t have a name in any human language. I lean in and tighten my grip, and his pulse hammers against my palm, fast now, afraid.
Good.
He should be afraid. He swings a fist into my jaw. I don’t feel it. I feel nothing except the weight of his neck in my grip and somewhere behind me, Miranda’s heartbeat, faint and skipping, and the sound of her breathing, shallow and wet, each exhale a small effort.
She is still alive. She is still alive, and I am going to make sure Kozlov and his men never touch her again.
His face is going dark. I hear the second man moving, and I release the first, let him drop, and turn.
The second man hasn’t run. He’s standing his ground, something in his hand catching the light, and he’s fast, faster than I expected.
The blade catches my forearm before I close the distance.
I don’t stop. I have him by the collar, and I drive him back into the kitchen counter.
He goes over, taking everything on it with him.
He scrambles to his feet. The fear coming off him now is sharp and acrid, flooding the room, and my wolf drinks it in without satisfaction because it is not enough; it will never be enough for what I found when I burst through that door.
I make sure he doesn’t get up again.
When it’s done, the apartment is quiet except for one thing.
Miranda’s breathing. Shallow and uneven.
I can’t get to her fast enough. My hands are shaking as I go down on one knee.
Blood is matted into her hair at the temple, a gash above her brow still seeping.
Her lip is split badly, her cheek swollen enough to distort her face.
One eye is completely shut, the skin around it gone deep purple.
Her left wrist, already wrapped from before, is wrenched at a wrong angle, clutched against her chest.
Bruises cover her arms where they grabbed her. When I run my hand carefully down her side, she makes a sound, even unconscious, and I stop.
“Miranda.”
Nothing.
I press two fingers to her throat.
Her pulse is there.
I take a shuddering breath as I cradle her in my arms. Taking out my phone, I call my alpha.
Ramirez answers after two rings. Before he can say anything, I say hoarsely, “Two men down. Miranda’s apartment.” I give him the address. “She needs a healer. Now.”
“How bad?”
“It’s bad, Coach.” My voice breaks unwillingly, and I steady myself before asking, “Can you send Sera? I know she’s human, but she’s not going to make it, Coach. She’s not going to—”
“I’ll send her.” The alpha’s voice is calm. “Who are the men? Human?”
“Yeah. I don’t know who they are. I just know I got here in time.”
He’s silent for a moment. “Get her out. Sera will be at yours in twenty. Cleanup in forty.”
I hang up.
I dial Linda before I’ve put the phone away.
She picks up on the first ring, already aware something is wrong from my voice.
I keep it short. Pack Ethan’s bag, take him to Coach Ramirez’s house, don’t tell him anything except that Dad has to deal with something tonight.
She doesn’t ask questions. Linda has worked for me long enough to know when not to.
I hang up and slide one arm under Miranda’s knees, one behind her back, and lift. She makes a small sound of pain and turns toward me, her hand finding the front of my jacket and holding on.
My wolf whimpers at the sound of her pain, and I press my lips together into a thin line. Gently, I carry her out of the building. Due to the late hour, there’s nobody around to see and ask questions. Lowering her into the backseat of the car, I slide in behind the wheel.
I don’t know how I drive and how many traffic laws I break, but when I pull into my driveway, Sera is on my front step. She’s the pack’s oldest healer with gray hair and a sharp, unruly tongue. She takes one look at Miranda in my arms and steps aside without a word.
I take her upstairs and lay her down on my bed.
Sera follows, pulls the lamp closer, and gets to work.
She checks the wrist first, then the ribs, then tips Miranda’s head gently to look at her eyes.
Her expression doesn’t shift until she reaches the ribs.
Then her mouth goes tight and stays that way.
“Three cracked ribs, one possibly broken. Fractured wrist, looks like it was twisted on an existing injury. Concussion, moderate to severe. There’s bruising around the kidney on the left side.” She straightens up. “Someone spent some time on her.”
“She’s human,” I say. “Can you heal—”
“I can heal anything.” Sera doesn’t look up. “Now get out of my way, boy.” She places her hands over Miranda’s side, and the healer’s light rises, warm and amber-toned. Miranda’s face slowly unclenches. The tight line of her mouth softens. Her breathing evens out.
I stay against the wall and watch.
It takes three hours, and I don’t move for any of it. At some point, I pull the chair to the edge of the bed and take her hand. Sera doesn’t comment.
The healer’s light pulses and dims and rises again, working through each injury in turn. Miranda’s fingers are cold, and I hold them gently.
Every time the light moves to a new injury, the guilt sits heavier. I should have gotten there sooner. I should have known something was wrong.
When the light reaches her ribs and her face tightens even in unconsciousness, my throat closes. I look away. Why are humans so fragile? How does she walk around in a body that breaks this easily and still pick fights with everyone in her path?
I look back at her, and my throat tightens again. I don’t look away after that because looking away feels like abandoning her to it.
By the end, the split lip is sealed, the swelling across her eye reduced, the bruise at her temple faded.
Sera sets the wrist last, her hands steady, and wraps it clean.
Then she steps back and turns to look at me instead of her patient.
Her eyes drop to my hand still holding Miranda’s, and she says nothing for a moment.
“She’ll sleep through the night. Give her fluids when she wakes.
The ribs will be tender, but she won’t feel the fracture.
” Sera glances at Miranda, something careful in her expression.
“She’s not like us. Healing magic this potent on a human, it mends what it touches.
But humans aren’t built to carry it.” A beat. “Watch her.”
She turns toward the door, then stops. “You have blood on your hands.”
I look down. I do.
I go to the bathroom and turn on the tap. The water runs red, then pink, then clear, but I’m barely looking.
She is my fated mate.
I stood next to her for two months. I argued with her, drove her home, sat in the same room as her for hours at a time, and my wolf never once hinted at it.
Why? I should have known. I should have thought deeper about why I kept losing control around her, why my wolf was so desperate to protect her.
I grip the edge of the sink, staring at my reflection.
I know what the Council does to wolves who complete the bond without approval. The Accord will never allow us to be together. And for wolves who resist the rules of The Accord, it is not always the wolf who suffers.
I turn the tap off and dry my hands. Returning to the bedroom, I drag the chair from the corner and sit in it to wait.
Miranda sleeps through the night and most of the next day.
I’m in the kitchen when I hear it. A shift of weight above me, the creak of the bed. I set down my coffee and take the stairs.