Page 7 of Altius
I wanted to hurt him. Throw something at him. Blindside him with my bladed tongue or some other sharp object.
The picture of my palm slamming into his already ruined nose, hard enough to draw blood, was so vivid, so lifelike, I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from acting on it.
Logically, I knew I didn’t want to injure Cal, but I was at the mercy of my cruelest impulses.
Irrational outbursts were a common side effect of both seizures and traumatic brain injuries. A curse destined never to be broken, no matter how many people I hurt.
My nails clawed at my thigh through the weighted blanket, a last-ditch effort to keep from lashing out.
If I had to damage something, it might as well be myself.
“If you’re willing to take regular blood draws while—” Chantal slapped a hand over her mouth, gagging as the tablet clattered to the floor.
Cal stared at me, his pupils inky black pools that blotted out the green portion of his irises, leaving only a ring of molten gold. He white-knuckled the footboard with enough force to make the plastic creak.
Wyatt’s calloused fingers yanked my hand away from the blanket, breaking the punishing grip I’d had on my thigh.
Letting out a snarl, I whipped to face him—only to find undiluted misery staring back at me.
“Stop,” Wyatt pleaded, voice raw and tired. So tired.
Bruise-like shadows haunted his eyes. A gray cast dulled his skin. Deep furrows framed his mouth and marred his forehead.
Why was the bone structure of his face so prominent?
He’d lost weight, and I hadn’t noticed—until this very moment—because I hadn’t allowed myself to take a proper look at Wyatt in weeks.
“What’s wrong with your pheromones?” he asked, fingers tightening around my wrist, forging a direct line to my fearful heart, causing it to skip several beats.
I stared at him in sheer, stunned panic. Unable to comprehend his words.
My pheromones?
I hadn’t emitted any in almost three years. So why—
Realization knocked me sideways. I slumped against the pillows.
Heat spike.
I was having an early heat spike, which meant…
Cal eased onto the bed beside me, pressing his chest against my back, anchoring me with one large arm, trying to soothe me with his purr.
But it didn’t work.
“How bad?” My strangled voice sounded like it belonged to someone else.
Cal buried his face in the curve of my neck, offering a rumble of apology before whispering, “They’re just like Wyatt’s.”
***
The numbness lingered until nightfall.
I rolled over, searching for a cool spot on my bed, not caring if I disturbed the cats.
Burying my face in a pillow, I muffled a groan. Damn bruises.
My phone buzzed on the nightstand. Even if I had the guts to check who the message was from, I didn’t have the energy. I hadn’t even bothered to turn on a light. All I wanted to do was sleep.
