"Oh god," she whispered. "Oh god, Craig. This is my fault. If he was investigating because of me—"
"No," I said firmly, tilting her chin up so she had to look at me. "This is not your fault. This is on whoever killed him. Do you understand me?"
But she wasn't hearing me. Her eyes were glazed, breathing shallow and ragged. She was going into shock.
I wasn't surprised. I'd seen this coming the moment we'd found Craig's body. The mind could only take so much before it started to fracture, and Ruby had been pushed past her breaking point.
Finding Craig like that, his blood still warm, his eyes still open in that final moment of terror—that would have been enough to break most people. But for Ruby, it wasn't just the horror of death. It was the weight of responsibility she was already shouldering, deserved or not.
This wasn't something I could fix with logic or reassurance. This was trauma, raw and visceral, and it needed to run its course. All I could do was make sure she didn't drown in it.
"Bartholomeus," I said softly, looking over Ruby's trembling form. "Can you keep Teddy at your house tonight? I don't want him seeing her like this."
Bartholomeus nodded immediately, understanding in his dark eyes. "Of course."
"Thank you." I shifted Ruby's weight, preparing to lift her. She was crying now, silent tears streaming down her face, her entire body shuddering with each breath.
I scooped her up easily, cradling her against my chest. She didn't protest, didn't even seem to register the movement. Her fingers clutched my shirt, and a broken sob escaped her throat.
"I've got you," I murmured, carrying her toward the door. "I've got you, Ruby."
The walk back to the guest house felt endless. Ruby cried the whole way, face buried against my neck, tears hot against my skin. I felt the sticky residue of Craig's blood on both of us—on our hands, our clothes. The metallic smell of it mixed with smoke and fear, creating a nauseating cocktail that made my stomach churn.
Inside the guest house, I headed straight for the bathroom. I set Ruby down gently on the closed toilet lid, but she immediately curled forward, wrapping her arms around herself.
"Ruby," I said softly, kneeling in front of her. "We need to get cleaned up. Can you stand for me?"
She nodded, but when she tried to rise, her legs buckled. I caught her again, steadying her against me.
"Okay," I murmured against her temple. "I've got you."
I reached for the hem of her shirt—Craig's blood had soaked through in dark patches that dried stiff and brown—and she lifted her arms mechanically, letting me pull it over her head. Her eyes were distant, unfocused, staring at something I couldn't see. I worked quickly, efficiently, removing her clothes with clinical detachment even as my heart ached at the sight of her so broken.
When she was down to her underwear, I stripped off my own blood-stained clothes and turned on the shower, waitingfor the water to warm. Steam began to fill the small bathroom, fogging the mirror and softening the harsh fluorescent light.
I hesitated, looking at Ruby standing there in just her bra and panties, both stained with blood. She needed to be completely clean. We both did.
"Ruby," I said gently. "Everything needs to come off."
She nodded, movements slow and dreamlike as she reached behind her back. Her fingers fumbled with the clasp of her bra, trembling so badly she couldn't manage it. After a moment, I stepped closer.
"Let me help."
I unhooked it carefully, sliding the straps down her arms with deliberate gentleness. Then I knelt, hooking my fingers in the waistband of her panties and drawing them down her legs. She stepped out of them without a word, using my shoulder for balance.
Standing before me, Ruby was completely bare, and despite everything—the blood, the trauma, the horror of the night—I couldn't help but notice how beautiful she was. Her body was exactly as I remembered from all those years ago. The gentle curve of her hips, the soft swell of her breasts, the delicate line of her collarbone. There was a roundness to her stomach now, no doubt from carrying our cub, and her hips were lusciously curved, her legs long and slender.
My cock stirred, beginning to harden despite my best efforts to remain detached. Heat pooled low in my belly, and I felt the telltale throb of arousal pulsing through me. Behind me, my tail began to lash involuntarily, betraying the primal response my body was having to her nakedness.
Not now. Not like this.
I clenched my jaw, forcing myself to breathe slowly and deliberately. I focused on the blood still staining her skin, on the tears streaming down her face, on the way her shoulders shookwith suppressed sobs. The arousal was natural—biological—but acting on it would be monstrous.
My tail continued its agitated movement, and I consciously stilled it, wrapping it around my own leg to keep it under control. I willed my cock to soften, thinking of anything but the woman standing vulnerable before me. The fact that she was grieving and traumatized, that she'd just held a dead friend in her arms.
Slowly, painfully, I regained control. My body obeyed, the arousal fading as I forced my mind to focus on what mattered—taking care of her. This wasn't about desire. This was about making sure she survived the trauma of this night.
I stripped off my own underwear and tossed everything into a pile in the corner. I'd burn it all later.
