Freia helped Steve out of his clothes, taking them away and handing him a washcloth pre-lathered with soap.
Dylan thanked her and took the cloth, but he had trouble cleaning more than his front. Every time he tried to reach for his back or lower on his legs, the shower cubicle started spinning and he had to steady himself against the wall to keep himself from falling over.
“I’ll help you,” Freia said, taking a new washcloth and proceeding to give him a clinical scrub down that felt wonderfully impersonal and distant.
“Thank you,” Dylan said, watching the water between his feet as it ran red with clumps of blood. Freia rinsed out the washcloth and grabbed a new one, starting over from the top of his head and scrubbing him down a second time. This time the water ran clear from the start.
“It’s nothing,” Freia said. “I’d do the same for any of my children’s mates if my ex-husband tried to turn them into their omega.”
Dylan laughed, the matter-of-fact tone of Freia’s voice breaking through his shock and highlighting the sheer absurdity of the situation he found himself in.
He missed the time when a hot werewolf doctor wanting to have sex with him was the weirdest thing to ever happen to him.
The laugh turned into a sob, and Dylan lifted his arm to cover his face to hide his tears.
Freia paused the washcloth on his leg, rising up and patting his shoulder in a rather awkward attempt at offering comfort.
When he’d stopped crying, Freia turned off the shower and wrapped him up in a towel.
“This is looking better already,” she said, showing him his neck in the mirror. “We need to get some fluids into you, but physically you should be fine by the morning.”
Dylan stared at the bite on his neck. It bisected August’s claiming bite, reaching all the way up to his jaw, and Dylan wondered how he was going to explain to people why his neck looked like he’d been mauled by a grizzly bear.
John had been shifted when he bit him, and the mark he’d left was twice the size of August and Ryker’s claiming bites.
It was a miracle he was still alive. John hadn’t damaged any of his arterial veins or arteries, and though the bite looked gruesome, it was essentially a flesh wound.
John hadn’t been trying to kill him. The realization hit Dylan like a bolt of lightning. He’d bitten him to claim him, fully intending to pin him down and force himself on him once his cock had healed from Dylan’s knife attack.
Considering how quickly Dylan had seen him heal after his fight with Marcus, Dylan knew it wouldn’t have taken long.
The realization stole the breath from Dylan’s lungs, the full gravity of what had almost happened to him hitting him all at once.
“You’re okay,” Freia said, rushing over to steady him when it looked like he was going to fall. “Breathe with me. In and out. You can do it.”
Dylan matched his breathing to Freia’s, and after a few minutes of standing there with his eyes clenched shut and forcing himself to breathe, he managed to calm down.
He wanted to go home.
“I’ll get you some clothes and a Gatorade, and then you can go lie down in the bedroom until Steve and the others arrive. I’ll deal with John’s body and talk to Marcus and the pack when they get back, so don’t worry about that. Does that sound okay?”
Dylan nodded. He suddenly wanted nothing more than a cuddle session with August – the kind where the alpha lay on top of him and crushed him into the mattress – and he hoped that it wouldn’t be long before they came back.
If Steve and Ryker were there, too, cuddled up next to August while he lay on top of Dylan, that would be even better.
“Then let’s get you to the bedroom and get you some clothes.”
“Is Steve going to be angry with me?” Dylan asked, realizing that he’d killed Steve’s dad. He knew that Steve had a complicated relationship with his father, but he’d loved him and looked up to him.
“No,” Freia said, rubbing his back. “He’s going to be crushed that his father would try to hurt his mate, but he’s not going to blame you for protecting yourself.”
Dylan didn’t feel bad for killing John. He’d only managed because John hadn’t considered him a threat. He’d had a knife, and John hadn’t even seemed to consider the idea that Dylan could successfully use it to hurt him.
If he hadn’t accidentally angled the knife just right when John launched himself on top of him to bite him, pushing it up under his ribs and stabbing him in the heart, he wouldn’t have stood a chance.
“It wouldn’t have worked, you know,” Freia said, letting him lean on her as she led him out of the bathroom.
“What?” Dylan asked, the colder air in the hallway making him shiver.
