Page 35 of Werewolves Don't Howl
“I could because of who I am. How could you heal me when I hurt you? Because that is who you are.”
I scowled at him and picked up the scalpel. “You took pleasure in my pain.”
“No. But I couldn’t let you die, like you can’t kill me.”
“We’re not the same!”
“No. We’re not. I would have killed you if I hated you as much as you despise me.”
I glared at him and edged away. “You deserve a slow, painful, agonizing death.”
He nodded calmly. “Indeed. But since you’re unwilling to give it to me, could you finish what you started? I’m about to collapse again.” He did, sinking back to the counter with his eyes closed, dark lashes against the pale skin of his face. His skin was waxy, much too pale from the loss of blood.
I sputtered, but he was right. I wasn’t going to kill him, so I might as well do what I could to treat him like he’d done to me in the van. We weren’t even, no matter how many times he put splints on me, or gave me healing tinctures, or drugged me. I glared at him, but he was either unconscious or had given up caring.
I cleaned and bandaged him until he was swathed in white, and then I shifted just enough that I had the strength to pick him up and carry him to the couch. As I laid him down, he opened his eyes to stare into mine, the beauty in those eyes making me snarl. There was no sign of guilt or remorse.
“You’re a psychopath,” I snapped.
“No. I’m only someone who will do whatever is necessary. I think that’s worse, don’t you?”
I gritted my teeth, wanting to cry, to scream, to yank out his pretty eyeballs and throw them back in his face.
I spat, “Yes. Whatever you are is the worst that there could ever be. I hate you so much!” I pulled a soft blanket over his bandaged body.
He smiled, a ghost smile on his pale lips. “I deserve to be hated with far more diligence than you seem capable of giving. Thank you.”
I snarled at him. “Don’t thank me. I’m not doing this for you. I’m not a person who lets people bleed out in front of me, no matter who they are.”
“I know. It’s ridiculous to thank you for being who you are, but I can’t help it. Thank you for being who you are.” He closed his eyes while I fumed, clenching and unclenching my fists.
“Silverton, or whatever your name is, the creature who did this to you, is it involved with Lynx?”
“Mm,” he replied without opening his eyes. “I believe so, but my investigation was interrupted by the beast. I have people following him, but of course, he’ll disappear. He always does. I think it’s the person who infected you as well.”
“You didn’t go alone?”
“No, I took Henrick.”
“After you had him drug me.”
“Mm. You aren’t limping anymore.”
I bared my teeth at him and then spun around and left before I decapitated him with something very dull. He was so infuriating. He hadn’t even apologized, but what did I expect from the biggest monster in the world?
ChapterEleven
Islept terribly, but at least I had Lynx for company. How could I stay here knowing who he was? But he was my official ‘protector,’ so where was I supposed to go? Anywhere. But I wasn’t going to run away until this beast Silverton was so obsessed with was captured and brought to justice. Or killed. That would be fine, too. Did he really think it was tied to me? That thought made me shudder.
I got up early, feeling completely unrested but still wired with nervous energy as I walked inside the kitchen, looking over at the couch where I’d left the monster. There was no sign of him or the blanket I’d tucked him under. I flinched at the memory. I had to be tough, hard, strong, or he’d just push me over. I couldn’t be making things cozy for him. I was a terrifying werewolf. I needed to act like it.
I nodded firmly as I got out the flour and sugar. I wasn’t going to give him any more gentleness or care. After the third batch came out, I was feeling more comfortable in my skin.
“Mm. These look good,” Silverton said from behind me as he reached over my shoulder and grabbed a cookie.
I whirled around, holding the rolling pin, but I couldn’t hit him when he’d been injured. And his eyes were so startling, all the shades of violet and lavender, with specks of deepest purple.
He smiled and put the cookie in his mouth, the whole thing, while I sputtered in outrage and a stupid awareness of his bare chest and the brawny musculature beneath his stapled gashes. He had so many scars on his chest and shoulders, arms, more scars than I could count.
