Once I’ve stitched my wound, I put my shirt back on and move to return the kit where it belongs. I hiss, then groan through tightly closed lips.
Our wolves have an incredible ability to heal us faster. I’ve had injuries worse than this that didn’t hurt this bad for this long.
My wolf outright refuses to lend me a hand, so I can heal faster. I’m bleeding through my shirt.
Yikes, that looks bad,he comments.
Yeah, it is. Wanna help me?
Help mate, and I’ll help you.
I rather suffer through it.
Suit yourself.
Whatever. He’s bluffing. This is just as painful for him, too. I just need to wait him out. Slow and careful, I reach for the kit on the top shelf, keeping my movements small so my stitches don’t tear.
If you don’t help her, I’m going to scream.
I stop cold in my tracks, knowing how he can get. His constant howling is insufferable.Don’t. You. Dare.
My wolf drawls out a long and loud howl that echoes in my brain.
I try to ignore him, but just a few seconds like this creates a dull headache.
I can’t take it anymore. I yell over him,Enough!Fine, I’ll help her.
He ceases his howl. Satisfied with himself, he joyously pants and wags his tail.
I’m about to make my way back down to the dungeon when my mother calls for me. “Caleb? Sweetheart, is that you?”
I follow her voice to my dad’s study. In his desk chair sits my mom. It’s odd since she’s rarely out of bed when she’s home. Even more shocking is finding her here, in a room she’s avoided since the attack. With reading glasses perched on her nose, she appears to be... working?
My mother’s eyes widen when she sees my wound. She rushes over to me. “Sweetheart, what happened to you? You’re bleeding!”
I’m taken aback by her concern. Lately, her grief has taken away her capacity to care for anything. “It’s nothing. I’m fine.”
My wolf has thankfully started to lend me his healing support.
Now, I’m wondering what has my mother acting more like herself again.
“It doesn’t look fine. Did you give yourself stitches? Let me see,” she insists.
I maneuver away from her, so she can’t mess with it. “Mom, stop. I’m fine, really.”
She raises her hands in a fake surrender. “Okay, I’ll stop.” She retreats behind the desk, returning to work, just like that. Like I’ve been encouraging her to do for months. “What’re you doing out of bed?”
Her eyes stay trained on papers in her hand. “What do you mean?”
“I mean...” I want to be careful with my words and don’t want to say something that might make her regress. “Usually you’re still in bed. I’m glad to see you’re up.”
I’m fishing, and my mother knows it. “So, was it her?”
Oh. That’s why she’s up.
“Was what who?” I ask, feigning naivety.
“Your mate,” she beams. “Was it her?”
