And when I yanked it open, he was bent over, rubbing his toes, wincing.
“Crowther?” My hand tightened around the round doorknob, the warmth of my palm heating the cool metal.
He glanced up, straightening with a half-hopeful look. “Yeah?”
“FUCK YOU!” And I slammed the door in his face, only to jerk it open—again and again and again—catching snippets of words and a mixture of expressions morphing from surprise to male fury between rapid, thunderous door slams.
“Will—”
SLAM!
“—you—”
SLAM!
“—stop—”
SLAM!
“—door—”
SLAM!
“—face—”
SLAM!
“—talk—”
SLAM!
“—me—”
SLAM!
“—fuuuck!”
SLAM!
I was breathing hard, jagged puffs of air, and the adrenaline blustering through my veins, pumping my heart faster, sputtered out. I turned to slump my back against the door, suddenly dragged down by lethargy and misery. Sage sat on his haunches watching me with his uncanny silver eyes. If anything, I was grateful Graysen had returned my wraith-wolf to me, but I’d never tell him that.
I slid my head to the side, pressing my ear to the wooden door. “Crowther?”
“Yeah?”
“Never use my name again. It’s Wychthorn from now on.”
A soul-weary sigh. A sound like fingertips slowly drumming on wood. And then a softthud, and the door rattled as if he’d done the same as me, both of us leaning against opposite sides.
“Crowther?” I said again, more quietly, but I knew with his keen hearing he’d hear me.
“Wychthorn?”
“Prepare to meet your worst roomie nightmare.”
13
Graysen
