But my wolf is weak. Suppressed. Which means I’m vulnerable. Human-level healing. Higher chance of infection.
I uncap the antiseptic and pour some onto a cotton pad.
The first touch makes me hiss through my teeth. It burns like fire, and my eyes water immediately.
I dab at the scratches carefully, methodically, trying to clean them properly. But my hands are shaking, and my vision keeps blurring with tears I refuse to let fall.
My mother’s words echo in my head.
“I told you never to mention them again!”
“You will not speak of them. Not in this house. Not ever.”
Even their names are forbidden. Even the memory of them has been erased from this place.
“You will stay away from Darius.”
And now she wants to control where I work, who I see, every aspect of my life.
I press the antiseptic-soaked pad against the deepest scratch and bite my lip hard enough to taste blood.
The tears finally spill over. They run hot down my cheeks, mixing with the antiseptic, making everything sting worse. My shoulders quiver with the effort of keeping the sobs silent.
I hate this. Hate feeling this weak.
With trembling fingers, I grab another cotton pad and keep cleaning. The motions are mechanical. Mindless. Something to focus on that isn’t the gaping wound in my chest that has nothing to do with the gouges on my face.
A knock sounds at my door. I freeze, pad pressed to my cheek.
“I’m busy,” I call out, trying to keep my voice steady. Failing.
The door opens anyway. Darius steps inside and closes it behind him.
Of course.
Of course he’d ignore a closed door. Ignore my request for privacy. Ignore every boundary I’ve tried to establish.
I don’t turn to look at him. Just keep my eyes on the mirror, on my reflection, on the careful work of cleaning these claw marks.
“I said, I’m busy.”
“I heard you.”
His footsteps are soft against the carpet as he crosses the room. I can see him in the mirror’s reflection. Those dark eyes, locked on me. On the blood. The tears.
He stops at the edge of the bed. Just stands there, watching.
I’m suddenly hyperaware of how I look. Sitting cross-legged in nothing but a robe, hair damp and tangled, face a mess of tears and antiseptic and blood.
“Get out,” I say, but there’s no strength behind the words.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just keeps watching me with those intense eyes that see too much.
I turn back to the mirror, trying to ignore him, trying to focus on cleaning the last scratch. But my hands are shaking harder now, and I can’t get the angle right, and the tears won’t stop coming.
The bed dips beside me.
“Get out.” My voice cracks.
