“Ashbourne, I know this is difficult, but you need to catch up. You’re covered in the blood of a Blackclaw wolf in the Crescent pack house on Fright Night. We have maybe thirty minutes before someone finds him, and an inquiry is called. Probably less. And we can’t be here when that happens. So…”
He takes me by the hand and guides me toward the little washroom that smells strongly of the minty antiseptic. I take a few steps forward, but my feet stick the moment I catch sight of myself in the mirror.
I look crazed.
My face is covered in blood and dirt, and my teeth still look like razor blades, crowded in my mouth and stained scarlet. The gash on my head looks angry, and my eyes are red and swollen.
Had I cried? I don’t remember crying.
Elliot’s voice jerks me out of my daze.
“Baby…” He speaks gently this time, hands resting on my shoulders. “We gotta go.”
I nod, barely perceptible, and he pulls the coat from around my shoulders, guiding me into the shower.
I sober myself with a deep breath and proceed to do as he directs.
I scrub in all the places he lists.
Behind my ears.
Between my fingers.
Under my nails.
I blow my nose, and I rinse out my mouth.
Twice to get rid of the smell. Then once more to get rid of the taste.
I scrub the blood from my hair and try not to think of all Elsie’s hard work going to waste, and I let Elliot clean the wound in my head until the rag comes away spotless.
When I’m finished, and my shift has subsided, I stand in the center of his room, draped in a towel, waiting impatiently as he sniffs me from head to toe.
“You’re good,” he says. “Get in the bed.”
“What?”
Elliot pinches the space between his eyes.
“Please stop saying ‘what’ and just get under the covers. And leave the towel.”
“Ughhh.” I groan as I drop the towel to the floor.
He doesn’t bother to look away, but I don’t particularly care. It’s nothing he hasn’t seen before.
“Roll around a bit,” he directs, once I’m settled under the blankets.
You’ve got to be kidding me.
I spread my bare body across the sheets, taking up as much space as I can. But it’s a big bed designed for a werewolf almost twice my size, so I eventually resign myself to rolling back and forth like a log.
“I hate you,” I tell him.
“Oh, shut up.”
When he’s satisfied I’ve done enough, he chucks a wad of clothes at me.
“Where’s my shirt?” I ask, even as I pull his oversized band tee over my head.
