“Hello, little hell-pup,” Ezra rasps.
Louie growls in his direction, then roughly supports his injured side, making Ezra suck in a sharp breath.
It takes both of us to get him upstairs, and even then, he stumbles—dangerously close to collapsing.
“You look like shit, old man,” Louie says, sounding a little worried. “I thought nothing could touch you.”
“Why, Louie, it almost sounds like you care.”
Ezra chuckles as we carefully sit him on the tiled bathroom floor.
“Well, I care about Aurora, and she cares about you, so …” Louie trails off, growling in frustration. “Ugh, whatever.”
She stomps back to her room, punctuating her irritation by slamming her door shut.
“I quite like the human version of her.”
Ezra stares up at me with those beautiful grey eyes and smiles. I lean down and gently run my fingers along his face, studying every cut and bruise.
I watch in disbelief as the swelling around his injured eyes visibly recedes, the angry bruises along his cheek and jawline already fading to sickly yellow-green.
Now that I know he’s healing, a fierce rage replaces the concern that consumed me only a minute ago.
“Where the hell have you been? You have at least one functional thumb. Couldn’t you shoot me a fucking text? I would’ve picked you up! Do you have any idea how worried I’ve been?”
My voice shakes as tears burn down my cheeks, caught somewhere between fury and relief.
The shadows writhe, thick tendrils tightening around my forearms, my waist, my thighs, desperately trying to anchor me to him.
They don’t care about his words.
They don’t even care about his healing.
They only care that he’s here … with me.
One of them slithers up his neck, caressing his jaw before curling toward me. Urging me forward. Begging me to take what’s already mine.
Ezra pulls me into his lap with his uninjured arm, burying his face in my neck, breathing me in like he’s memorizing the scent of home.
“Please don’t cry, Aurora,” he whispers. “I’ll tell you everything about my time away. But first, I need to clean up.”
The stress of the last few days crashes over me, and the angry tears shift to tears of relief as I sob against his chest. He holds me tight and strokes my hair, whispering apologies and begging for forgiveness.
Only Ezra could turn me into a blubbering puddle of stupid emotions.
“Let’s get you in the shower and patch up anything still healing,” I say, sniffling as I peel myself out of his hold and reach to turn on the shower.
I help him to his feet and once I’m sure he won’t fall, I head to the closet to grab him some sweatpants.
When I return, he’s struggling to unbutton his shirt.
“Here, let me,” I say, setting the clothes down.
“Hm.”
Someone wrapped Ezra’s injured arm with great care, but it’s wrapped around his clothing, too.
“We should probably take the sling off first. Do you think you’ve healed enough to do that?”
