Page 100 of It's You
Jack looked at his bloody arm, black and shiny in the darkness. It throbbed like crazy, even though it would heal quickly once he shifted. But Tombeur was right. Without sewing it up in human form, it would heal jagged and angry. He thought of Darcy’s reaction to the misshapen flesh, how her eyes would soften as she surveyed the ugliness.
She doesn’t want you, stupid.You’ve got no one to look pretty for.
He clenched his eyes shut, remembering her loving gentleness as she kissed the scars on his chest. The memory made his heart hurt worse than his arm.
“I’m ready to shift when you are,” he said bitterly, and Tombeur nodded.
Once in shifted form, Jack carried the body of his barely conscious father over his shoulder for the entirety of the run, past Tombeur’s cabin, back to his abandoned car.
In Roug form, with over twice the muscle mass he owned in human form, his father’s unconscious, wasted body barely made an impression on him as he ran swiftly through the woods. He couldn’t help thinking about his parents’ failed binding. Tombeur’s too. Maybe he’d been foolish all these years to believe that his would be different. That he could somehow make a human understand who he was and still want him.
His feet pounded against the rocks, twigs and uneven paths of the forest floor, but he didn’t feel a thing. He wished his heart had been as well-protected. He was still reeling from the ugliness of tonight’sDansmatête. He could still feel the sharp,pricking pain of the freezing water, like a million needles under his fur, numbing his skin. His chest remembered the terrifying pressure as it ran out of air, the unavoidable pull of the dark, swirling water, tugging him down into the watery depths. He wasn’t cold, but he shivered. She had left him there. She had rowed away with all her might, leaving him to die.
He caught sight of the moon up ahead over Tombeur’s shoulder, and he howled with the pain of her rejection, her words on Thursday morning, and her actions tonight as she abandoned him to a freezing, dark, watery death. She didn’t love him. She’d never said it, no matter how much he hoped he’d seen love in her eyes. He howled again in pain and anguish.
Bindings are broken.
She doesn’t want you.
Let her go.
He increased his speed, bypassing Tombeur even with the weight of his father, relishing the wind in his fur as he raced through the forest, knocking away branches, ripping boughs from tree trunks, howling at the moon with the force of his sadness, his fury, his despair.
By the time they reached Jack’s car, his anger had given his sadness a good, hearty kick in the ass.
She doesn’t want you? She wants you to die?
Fine. Don’t go back. You don’t need her.
They shifted back into human form and settled Dubois in the back seat, and Jack turned the car around, southwest toward his mother’s cabin.
Jack was filthy and naked, and when he looked at his arm, he saw that Tombeur had been right. Where the bullet had torn through his arm was now a ragged, angry mess of pinkish scar tissue about the size of a silver dollar. He glanced in the back seat at his father, who seemed to be sleeping, but it was hard to tell. His eyes were finally closed.
“You okay?” Tombeur sighed beside Jack, his beard caked with mud. He’d heard the pain in Jack’s howls. “How’s your arm?”
“Doesn’t hurt.”
“Sure is ugly.”
Jack glanced over at his friend. “Thanks.”
“You want to talk about it, then? What’s got you emo-shifting and howling like a banshee?”
“Not really.”
Tombeur ignored him. “You saw her? Darcy Turner?”
Jack nodded.
“How’d it go?”
“Not good,” answered Jack, clenching his jaw.
“You always knew it’d be a tough haul, Jacques.” Tombeur rubbed his chin. “I have to ask. Is she a danger to us?”
Jack deeply resented the protective surge he felt in response to Tombeur’s question. He sighed and shook his head. “I don’t think so. She’s angry. Confused.”
“Keep on top of it, Jacques. Our agreement stands. If she’s a threat to us, we have to?—”
