Page 37 of Psycho Pack

"Stay," I tell Wraith softly. His eyes follow me as I stand, tracking my movements like a wild animal ready to bolt. "I want to try something."

I scan the shelves methodically, moving deeper into the stacks.

Medical texts.

Historical accounts.

Military strategy.

Finally, in a dusty corner, I find what I'm looking for. A slim volume on military hand signals, used for silent communication in the field. Not exactly what I need, but it's a start.

When I return, Wraith has pressed himself further into his corner. His shoulders hunch as I approach, making his massive frame somehow smaller. The sight sends an ache through my chest.

"Look," I say, holding up the book. He flinches hard, hands coming up to shield his face. The reaction hits me like a punch to the gut.

Does he think I'm going to hit him with it?

I freeze, then slowly lower myself to sit cross-legged on the floor, placing the book between us. "No one's going to hurt you," I say, keeping my voice low and steady. "You're safe."

His hands lower fractionally. Those intense blue eyes dart between my face and the book, calculating.

Assessing the threat.

I open the book to the first page, movements deliberate and slow. "See? It's about hand signals. Ways to talk without speaking." I demonstrate the sign for hello, my fingers clumsy as I copy the illustration.

Wraith's head tilts slightly.

Curious, despite his fear.

I slide the book closer to him, careful not to make any sudden moves. "We could learn together. If you want."

His hand inches toward the page. I hold my breath, not daring to move. His fingers brush the paper, tracing the illustration with surprising gentleness for such huge hands.

Then I make a mistake.

I reach out to turn the page, my hand brushing his arm. He snarls, the sound ripping from his throat like broken glass. I snatch my hand back, but don't retreat completely.

"Sorry," I say quickly. "That was stupid. No touching. I understand."

The snarl fades to a low growl, then silence. His eyes stay fixed on the book, shoulders rigid with tension. But he hasn't run. Hasn't retreated into himself like he does when our father pushes too hard.

I take it as a good sign.

"Let's try this one," I say, pointing to another illustration without touching the page. The sign for "yes"—a fist bobbing up and down. I demonstrate, watching his reaction.

For a long moment, he doesn't move. Then, slowly, his hand curls into a fist. The movement is hesitant, uncertain. But he copies the sign perfectly.

My heart leaps. "Good! That's it."

He ducks his head at the praise, but I catch the way his eyes crinkle slightly at the corners. The closest thing to a smile I've seen from him.

I'm not actually sure hecansmile, judging from how badly scarred his face is. It's clear even though most of the damage is hidden by the bandana he keeps checking.

We work through more signs.No. Stop. Danger.

Basic military signals at first, then I start improvising.

Making up our own signs for things like "hungry" and "tired." He picks them up with startling speed, his hands growing more confident with each new word.

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