Answer me, Daddy
Quin turned his phone off. He knew that if he didn’t, Lark would keep calling until he got what he wanted. One night, when Quin had gone out with Sage to celebrate their rugby team winning, he’d woken up to fifty-four missed calls.
Fifty-four.
Quin hadn’t even done anything but have a few too many beers and pass out on Sage’s sofa, and he had kept Lark in the loop all night until then.
Regardless, Quin had grovelled for days before Lark forgave him.
Quin needed to stop doing things he had to apologise for. At least Kit had accepted his gesture.
Only time would tell if their fragile peace lasted, however.
SEVEN
Kit
Every night,Kit woke up with a new mark on his body. Two nights ago, it was five scratches in horizontal lines down his chest. Yesterday, it had been bruising along his hip bones, bright red and throbbing. This evening, he’d woken up to mottled handprints around his throat.
He was getting sick of the self-inflicted wounds. There was only so much he could take before he’d need to sit himself down and have a serious conversation…with himself. He thudded his forehead against the mirror, exhaling a deep sigh.
That most of the marks would be almost impossible to inflict on oneself was something Kit ignored.
The biggest downside of the marks was that the urge to feed hit him more often. Because he spent so much of his energy on healing, he didn’t feel nourished even when he ate. Which these days wasn’t often enough.
Ever since he’d lost himself and fed on the teenager, he’d found it difficult to approach people. He’d gone out the night before and followed a group of middle-aged women until one peeled off to head home. He’d compelled her, but after feeding for a mere ten seconds, he let her go.
Kit wasn’t healing fast enough, not even at human speed anymore. The lines on his chest had faded to pink, but he swore when he ran his fingers along each one, they stuck out from his skin like a growth, getting bigger and more obtrusive every time. The bruises on his hips were like stains from memories he wanted to bleach from his mind. He’d worn a fingerprint collar around his throat many times before. He couldn’t help but trace the marks with a talon.
Kit had always been pale, but now his skin appeared grey. He pinched some redness into his cheeks, hating how he still cared so much about his looks. Not that anyone ever saw him anyway.
Yet, he thought just that bit harder about what he wore that night, going to his wardrobe and standing in front of it, considering. He ran a hand through the neat rows of colour-coordinated shirts and jumpers. Maybe he should go for something bright to distract from the mess on his throat. His eyes caught on a thick woollen turtleneck in a rich mustard. It would work well with his dark jeans.
When he worked himself up to it, he ran down to the coast. He had a patch of beach in mind that he hadn’t been to recently, so it was due for a visit. That was the only reason he was going there, of course. It had nothing to do with the fact that he’d figured out it lay close to Quin’s house.
Kit set about combing for sea glass, finding the usual abundance of green and white. Time went on, and he found a pale blue piece—a shade he coveted. He lifted the glass up to peer at in the light of the waning moon. It was small, barely bigger than his thumbnail, but it held undeniable beauty. An aqua that matched the colour of the sea on the sunniest of days.
A colour Kit would never see in person ever again.
Kit got the greys and the blacks. The murk of the uninviting water, not the bright waves of the daylight, flickering with reflections of the sun. He’d not visited the beach often as ahuman, only a few times on away days to Largs or Troon with Nicola and her friends. He wished he’d done it more. Abroad maybe, too. Menorca or Majorca or another of the common Spanish locations people holidayed in. Or perhaps somewhere closer to home. His visit to Brighton hadn’t given him enough time or opportunity to explore before they’d been told to leave, but he would have liked to have seen what the southern English coast offered.
Footsteps up on the street caught his attention. Kit smelled dog in the air.
Quin.
Or, rather, Mabel. He could hear claws scraping on the street. But if Mabel was around, then so was Quin. After checking nobody else was around, Kit ran up the beach and jumped, catching hold of the wall and boosting himself over it in a flash.
“Jesus Christ,” Quin yelped when Kit appeared in front of him.
Kit simply smiled at Quin, as if he hadn’t just given him the fright of his life. Quin deserved it for the almost-stalking, even if he had apologised and given him a bunch of flowers. Mabel wagged her tail and strained on the lead towards Kit, so he reached down to give her a good pat on the head.
Quin had one hand pressed to his chest as he puffed for air. “You can’t do that!”
“Do what?” Kit asked, putting on a show of innocence.
“Just”—Quin flapped a hand in Kit’s direction—“appear out of nowhere like that.”
“I would have thought your heightened werewolf senses would have alerted you to my presence.”
