Page 65 of Ravaged Wolf
My pride stings a little at the prospect of another male finishing my work, but my wolf would kill me if I turned him down, and I’m not about to look a gift horse in the mouth. “Thank you, man. I’ll owe you.”
He claps me on the shoulder. “Good luck,” he says and kind of grimaces. What does that mean?
Finally, Flora gets Granddad sorted enough to move on out, and the three of them leave for the den, leaving Izzy in her bedding pile, staring at me with my bucket and stack of fresh blankets.
Her cheeks flush fresh pink, and she glances at me sideways from downcast eyes.
I stand awkwardly by the edge of the platform.
“I brought water for washing,” I state the obvious. Yet again, my voice has dropped an octave on its own accord.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers.
“No need for sorry.”
“I thought I had another week.”
“It’s okay.”
“It’s really bad,” she says, almost inaudibly. Now she’s staring past my left ear. I’m talking to a spot on the ground in front of her.
I’m not embarrassed. Mom was very forthright aboutthese things, and Dad lectured the squeamishness out of us when he overheard Tarian say “anything that bleeds for five days and doesn’t die is unnatural” and ranted for, like, three hours straight about the miracle of female physiology, their proximity to the divine, and the male imperative to not piss them off.
Izzy, though—she’s mortified. She hasn’t made a move to stand. I want to help her, but I know getting closer is probably the worst thing to do. But I’m her mate. I’m up to bat, and it’s go time. She came to me. I get to be the one to take care of her.
My gut knots with the memory of how badly I failed in the past, the shadow of it rising up and cutting me off at the knees, sending my anxiety surging, but I am not a coward, and I am not going to allow this simple thing to be hard.
“Come on.” I don’t take a step toward her, but I hold out a hand. “I know a good place to wash off. I won’t look. I’ll keep my eyes right on yours.”
“I feel so stupid.”
“I’m hungry,” I say because it’s literally the first feeling that pops into my head.
She’s surprised into a short laugh. “You didn’t get to eat the food you brought. I’m sorry.”
“We’ll get cleaned up, and on the way back, I’ll show you my favorite berry patch.”
“Berries aren’t a good breakfast.”
“Clearly, you’ve never talked to a bear.”
She laughs again, and it’s nervous and polite, but still, I love the sound. “I’m so embarrassed,” she says. “I can’t believe this happened.”
“It’ll be okay.”
The words hang between us, sharp as glass. I wish I could’ve said them to her before. I wish I could’ve made them true. I pray with my whole soul that I can now, that it’snot too late, and I know—I can feel under my ribs—that she hears all I mean when I say it, too.
“Ready?” I ask, locking eyes with her.
“Okay.” She holds my gaze as she untangles herself from her nest and waddles to me like a penguin, her thighs pressed tight together. The tang of blood fills the air. She’s wearing a really long T-shirt as pajamas, and from the quick glance I unintentionally took when she stood, it’s a crime scene from the waist down.
Is that a normal amount of blood? Her color’s good, she’s not shaking, and the pulse in her neck is beating steadily. Going by what happened back at Moon Lake, I’m fairly sure she’s been taught to suffer in silence instead of make a nuisance of herself, so I’ll have to keep a close eye on her. Get something sweet into her now and some red meat later, for lunch.
She shoves her feet in her sneakers while I tuck a towel, a washcloth, the soap, and a tampon under my arm. Then I pick up the bucket and grab her hand. “Do you like berries?” I ask her.
“Depends. What kind?”
“Juneberries.” I help her down from the platform.
