Chapter Thirty-Five
Harley
I knew the room I'd slept in at Zade's house wasn't really cold. Even if it had been, the pile of comforters and quilts that Levi had piled on me after Clint gently deposited me on the bed would have chased away any residual chill. Still, it wasn't until Scott crawled in beside me and pulled me against his body that the ice inside me began to thaw.
"You okay, baby?"
"I guess." I wiggled against his body, trying to get as close as possible. If I could have found a way, I would have climbed all the way inside him. "Is your back okay?"
Guilt flashed through me at the thought of being responsible for him being injured yet again.
"It'll be fine," his chest rumbled under my cheek as he reassured me, brushing a kiss over my hair. "The new stuff is already healing."
"What about the knife wound?"
Scott gave a rueful chuckle. "Well, it's rebandaged, but that one was already guaranteed to scar, Har. You know what silver does to a shifter."
"And it doesn't help that I keep reinjuring you," I added with a sigh.
"Youhaven't injured me once, Harley," Scott corrected me, running his hand down my back. "Everything that has happened has been because of decisions I made."
If only I could believe that.
"Anyway, Levi said to tell you that the doctor will be in to see you in a few minutes."
A finger of dread began to unravel through me, but I wasn't sure why.
"Harley? What's wrong?"
"I'm not sure," I said slowly. "Did he say what doctor?"
"No."
I drew in a deep breath of the comforting Alpha hormones that Scott's body was offering up to me. "Damn, you smell good."
Scott growled deep in his throat and his scent got deeper and more erotic, his dick starting to swell against my thigh. "Don't say things like that, Har. You need to rest."
"Mmm," I exhaled against his skin, then tilted my head so I could rub my nose against the skin of his armpit.
"Har, that has to stink," Scott protested, laughing.
"So good," I disagreed, pressing a kiss to the soft hair. "I always loved the way you smell."
Before Scott could reply, there was a knock at the door. It opened, admitting Dr. Miango, the doctor who'd treated my episodes before I was taken to Wolfsrudel.
"Well, now, Harley, I hear your memory has recovered," the man greeted me with a broad grin, but there was something strange – hostile, even – lurking in his eyes.
"Some of it, anyway," I agreed hesitantly.
"Not all?" He seemed oddly relieved.
"Not yet," Scott answered for me. "But we're optimistic that the rest will come."
"One can only hope," the doctor said with an odd snicker. He pulled a needle from the pocket of his long, white coat. "Now, I understand that you've had a traumatic morning, so rest is going to be the best help." He advanced on me, snapping the cap off and spraying a tiny drop into the air. "Be a good boy and hold out your arm for me."
I screamed as images began to flood my mind, one after the next so quickly that I couldn't even process them all. I was tied to a chair, a bed, an operating table and in each of them the doctor was holding a needle and telling me to bea good boy.
Then he was forcing pills down my throat, striking me across the face when I gagged on them.
