Page 47 of Consume Me
Bythe time we step through the portal into Sanctum, I’m holding myself together by sheer will. The shift back from wolf to man always costs me something—strength, focus, control—but tonight, it’s more than that. The fight with the dagger-turned-demon left my muscles heavy, my bones aching, and my wounds… slow. Too slow.
I know the signs of poison when I feel them. The heat crawling under my skin. The way my breath comes a fraction too shallow.
But I don’t say any of that.
Instead, I say, “I’m fine.”
Kendall’s eyes cut to me sharply. She’s not the sort of woman who takes words at face value—especially not from me. She studies me like she’s reading a battlefield, cataloging every strategic angle and hidden weakness.
“You’re bleeding, and it’s not clotting,” she says. Her voice is low, tight. Not fear—never fear—but that sharp-edged concernshe tries to hide.
“The claws were likely tipped in venom,” I say, trying to keep my voice light.
She glares at me like I’ve somehow pissed her off. “Poison.”
“I’ll get supplies from the study.”
She shakes her head. “Sit.”
My wolf bristles at the command. I’ve never been ordered like this—not by my captains, not by my cadre. But she’s not them. And the fact that I thought I lost her is still too fresh in my mind, which means I’d rather die than refuse her anything right now.
I sit.
Her footsteps fade down the hall. The house hums around me, breathing in time with the magic in its walls. I built Sanctum to be unshakable, a fortress in the void between worlds—but right now, without Kendall sitting beside me, it feels too quiet.
When she returns, she’s carrying a basin of steaming water, clean cloths, and the small black chest that holds my salves and stitching kit. I don’t bother to ask how she knew where to look. It seems that her sight is more inclusive with the daggers gone.
She kneels in front of me without a word, sleeves pushed to her elbows. The firelight turns the bare skin of her arms gold.
She dips a cloth into the water, wrings it out, and presses it to my side.
I hiss as pain shoots through the wound. “What the?—”
“It’s crushed moon bloom. Ashthorn would have been better, but this is all you had,” she explains.
I stare at her. “You know how to treat poisons?”
“My sister is an accomplished assassin whose skill—by trade and by birth—is poisons. I picked up a thing or two.”
I blink, struck by how she continues to intrigue me with each new layer I uncover about her. She continues to work on the wound, rewetting the rag with the antidote.
“Brace yourself,” she mutters and then presses it against my side a second time.
I wince, but this time I’m ready for it. The sting is nothing compared to the way her gaze pins me there.
“What does Amarok mean?” she asks.
The question is unexpected. I blink, frowning as I try to find the words.
“In the old tongue, it’s the name of a wolf that hunts alone. A creature born to walk the dark without a pack, without a master. It doesn’t wait for the moon to rise or for prey to stumble—it hunts because that’s all it knows how to do. Always moving. Always killing. Always alone.”
Her lips part, like she’s realizing the weight of it.
I shrug, trying to relieve some of that heaviness, but the truth is, the name has fit my beast for centuries. And there’s no relieving that. “When my cadre was alive, we were five. Together, we had a name, a purpose. When they died, the name that clung to me was Amarok. The wolf who hunts by himself. The one who never stops.”
I’m not sure what I expect her to say. Maybe offer condolences. Or even pity. Instead, she says, “I get it. That isolation. That grief.”
And my heart aches. Not for me. For her.
