Page 39 of The Warrior's Captive

“Yes! Castor, I’m here.”

He reached down and somehow, he hauled her up. His arms closed around her. A broken sob tore out of her, but she was relieved to feel the strength in his muscles still, even if he was trembling. His hand shook so badly that it was like he was patting her head when he tried to touch her hair.

“Are you real? Are you safe?”

“Yes.” She wanted to touch him all over, but she was afraid that she’d hurt him. “I’m safe. And so are you.” She pushed her face into his shoulder, afraid she wouldn’t have the fortitude to get through this. She needed to be strong because all he had was her. She couldn’t break down or break apart now when it mattered more than anything. “I know how much you hate people taking care of you, but please, let me. Let us.” She tried to reach around to put her hand on his back.

He didn’t make a sound because he wouldn’t, ever, no matter what kind of butchery was done to him, but she pulled her hand away and moaned when her fingers came away red. She couldn’t panic. She swallowed that down too, shutting it up inside her.

“We need to see. To help you, we need to see, Castor. Will you let me? Can I take off your shirt? Will you let me touch you? I’ll be as gentle as I can, I promise.”

He inclined his head like he was looking up at her, but she doubted he could see anything at all except a blurry haze through the one barely open eye, and maybe nothing even then. He finally gave a tight nod.

She trailed her fingers down to the hem of his black t-shirt. He looked so much the same as before, in those black fatigues, but she knew he wasn’t the same man at all. That same dread washed over her, that she wasn’t strong enough to be able to do this. She wasn’t strong enough to be what Castor needed.

She didn’t have a choice. She knew that. Even if she did, she wouldn’t allow anyone else near him. She knew that too.

She inched the t-shirt up from the front, each minute seeming to take an hour. She wasn’t aware of anyone else in the world. It was just them. When the cotton stuck and wouldn’t inch up any higher, it felt like a bomb went off in the room, the shrapnel hitting her right in the chest.

“I think we need to soak it off.” There was fresh blood, but obviously old, dried blood too. She wasn’t about to tear off his flesh and cutting the shirt off wouldn’t work either. “Will you come to the bath with me? It’s just down the hall.” There was an unblemished patch of skin under Castor’s right ear, like it had been missed in the horrible onslaught of death rained down on him. She put her lips there. Inhaled. Exhaled. He barely smelled like him. Blood, salt, pain, earth. No bright lemon, licorice and dark spices.

The pressure in her chest built until the only thing she could do to release it was to sob, but she wasn’t going to break down again. She could do something else to release that pressure. She could do something horrible. War and violence. She wanted to take vengeance on whoever had done this to him. She wanted to make them pay.

“Castor? Will you come with me?”

His face rubbed hers, their noses almost touching. He gave a weak nod.

She stood up and put one of his arms around her shoulder and tried to pull him to standing. He tried to help her but couldn’t quite manage.

“Little sister.” Kieran appeared in her field of vision like a shadow. She wanted to lash at him and punch him and scream at him not to touch Castor, but that would be ridiculous. He only wanted to help. She had to get herself under control.

Kieran was gentle. He supported the broken man as carefully as he’d carried her. Together, they walked down the hall. She’d said the bath, but the best option seemed to be the walk-in glass shower. It was large and easy to get in and out of with someone who was barely clinging to consciousness.

She didn’t have to say anything. Kieran headed straight there. He opened the door, and they slipped in together. She turned the spray on, blocking it with her own body until it was warm. Castor made a noise of shock when the water washed over him, but only because he was so fevered. She could feel the fire coming off his skin in waves. She adjusted the water, turning it down to lukewarm and then a little bit colder. She was right about the temperature when Castor leaned into it, craving that chill against the inferno of his body.

Kieran tilted him enough that she could work his t-shirt off. She went slow again so she didn’t damage him past what had already been done to him.

“Fuck,” Kieran hissed. She hadn’t looked at Castor’s back yet.

Her brother stopped her, tilting Castor away so she got his chest.

How could his back be worse? She gasped at the partly healed, weeping, red wounds there. Not just knife marks. Letters.

Betrayer.

She was astonished that it was possible to even feel so much anger. The violence in her was real. She felt unstable. She wanted to scream out bloody vengeance. She wanted to find them and kill them all. Tear them apart. No one hurt Castor that way. No one.

“They gave their word.” Her voice was dangerous. Brittle. A hiss. She sounded half possessed. “Their word means nothing. They broke their oath.”

Vengeance will be mine.

“Briar May!” Kieran’s hand closed over hers. She didn’t realize that she’d pressed her nails into her palm until she’d drawn her own blood. Kieran forced her hand open. She wanted to tear her clothes. Her hair. Tear great gashes in her arms. “I know what you’re feeling, but he wouldn’t want that under any circumstance. He’s alive. He’s hurting badly. He needs you to stay right here, little sister. Don’t go there. Not in your head. Not in your heart. Not with your wolf. Just one breath.” Kieran drew one in. Castor groaned and leaned harder against her brother.

Because she needed to get out of the shower and get Castor in bed, on his side, where they could clean and examine his wounds, where Brooke Wind could see him and treat him, where healing could finally begin, she breathed in until her chest felt like it would explode. She brought her own hand up to the back of her neck and squeezed, wishing it was Castor’s firm, rough, grounding touch.

He wasn’t her mate yet, but he’d stamped his ownership all over her in every way and she knew she’d change nothing.

She was his.

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