Looking between Bane and Stryker’s tight features, I point out the flaw in their theory. “But you guys have actually bitten me; tasted my blood.” Their eyes darken at the reminder, and I swallow, epically failing at shoving down the images that flicker through my mind. “So why would some random shifter go feral from only the faint scent of me cutting up my feet in the woods? Not like a limb was severed to make it overwhelming, or he took a bite and liked it so much he didn’t want to let go.”
The arm of the couch compresses under Stryker’s grip. “I don’t think we’ve been completely honest about how addicting it is, Risa. Just looking at you has my mouth watering, imagining you writhing beneath me as I bite your shoulder. The soft sounds you’d make before I had you screaming my name, nails raking across my back hard enough to make me bleed. Driving into you until you couldn’t remember anything before the three of us, the taste of you coating my tongue, knowing you’re mine.”
My breathing picks up, skin feeling too tight, like static is dancing across the surface. The heat of Mason’s hand on my thigh is a brand, possessive and immovable as it sinks in that this is my new reality... and I don’t actually hate any part of it beyond all of the unknowns threatening to drown me. But his touch, the sense of security I get being surrounded by them, has what little fear I was still holding on to dissipating.
Embracing my second chance, I wade through the sexual tension to try and get back on track. If I want a new life, the opportunity to see if they live up to all of their claims, then I need to not end up getting my throat ripped out because of a paper cut before I can enjoy anything.
“And you think it’s different because you three turned me.” I don’t phrase it like a question, because it’s the only thing that makes sense. “That while you’re craving another hit of my blood, your desire to protect and take care of me overrules the compulsion, but others wouldn’t have that same impulse.”
Bane dips his head appreciatively. “Seems like a solid theory to us at least. You?”
My stomach somersaults as I war with myself, debating if I actually need to get into all of the details and relive the trauma, or if an abridged version would suffice. Yet one look at these men filing away each move that I make, interpreting every nervous tick in response to the direction of the conversation, and I know that keeping secrets is a lost cause. They’ll continue probing for more until they can piece together the full story, because even my brief death didn’t give me an out.
I don’t get to start over and pretend like the past never happened, I get a chance to make sure that it never happens to me again. Break the cycle, but never forget; do better.
“I think it’s entirely possible that there’s something fucked up with my blood and I might never shift because of it.”
Mason goes rigid beneath me, while Bane leans closer, resting his arms loosely on his knees and lacing his fingers together. “Explain.”
With a deep breath, I try to disassociate, to distance myself from it all and pretend I’m dictating someone else’s suffering. “I was... sick, as a kid. A lot.” At his raised eyebrow, I start fingering the hem of my oversized shirt. “I spent my entire childhood in and out of the hospital, an endless blur of tests and treatments, experimental medications shoved down my throat and pumped in through IVs. All they really could do was try to combat my symptoms since they could never come up with a solid diagnosis. As soon as a pattern would start to develop with my symptoms, something would change and vary so wildly that it destroyed any of their running theories.”
Mason’s fingers tighten on my flesh, and I bring my free hand to his wrist. Running a solitary finger over his knuckles and wrist, up his arm, it helps provide a distraction, an excuse not to look at any of them. I’m nervous that if I do, whatever I see in their expressions will make it harder to mentally distance myself like I need to so I can finish explaining.
“We were forced to move nearly every year. My parents were always looking for a new treatment to come up, chasing down whatever small hope came to light across the country. By the time I hit third grade we gave up trying to keep up with public school. I missed too much, and every move was growing harder on me to adjust, so we switched to homeschooling from the hospital bed, or at home when we could. They tried though, constantly bringing me new books to read as a reward for doing well, or enduring a particularly bad stint that knocked me out of commission for several days.”
Tears burning in the back of my eyes, I look up at the ceiling, sucking down a breath that threatens to make my lungs explode. When I have the sensation under control, I tilt my head back down, only to make the horrible mistake of glancing at Stryker as I do. The look on his face threatens to push me past the brink of no return, and it takes me another several seconds to compose myself.
He isn’t looking at me with pity like Bane is; he looks absolutely livid. And it’s in that very moment that I know I’m never going to be able to leave these men to try and create the normal life I was robbed of and spent so many years chasing. With barely any information he’s pieced it together, and that sort of instant assumption only stems from understanding on a deeper level.
People that have suffered at the hands of the worst of humanity will nearly always default to assuming the worst of any situation. We’ve experienced the lengths some people are willing to go, are convinced that every kindness is a trap to lull us into a false sense of security, always waiting to see what it is that someone wants from us.
Because toxic people always bleed you dry for everything that they can get, leaving you a shell of a person when they’re through.
“About six months before I turned eighteen, I overheard my parents talking when they thought I was asleep.” Hardening my heart, I force myself to hold Stryker’s livid gaze, soaking up his fury as validation for blowing up my life and making such terrible choices in my subsequent spiral. “Apparently I was building up too much of a tolerance, and they were growing desperate to find something they hadn’t tried before.”
Bane furrows his brow. “To the medications? Wouldn’t that be something the doctors would come up with?”
Stryker beats me to the punch, furious. “To what they were slipping in her food to make her sick.”
The heavy silence that follows his declaration is as suffocating as the memories. Mason’s grip has tightened on my thigh to the point that if I were still human, I’d have bruises before the sun set tonight. Bane becomes so preternaturally still that there’s no way he’s breathing, a myriad of emotions flitting across his face as the weight of it sinks in.
And when he explodes, he barely even resembles himself anymore.
All the smiles and flirtatious nature are snuffed out, burned away by the rage morphing his features as the remote explodes against the wall. Pieces shatter, small plastic shards clattering against the hardwood floor across the room. He’s halfway into the living room before I’ve barely blinked, Stryker chasing after him.
Turning to Mason, I have to swallow before I can get the words out, my nerves clogging my throat. “Is he going into the forest to break some stuff until he feels better?”
Biting his lip, Mason looks like he’d rather not answer. But at my persistent stare, he caves. “To track down your parents.”
The sound of an engine firing up has my eyes widening, but it’s cut off a minute later. Breaking free of Mason’s hold, I jog across the house, looking out the window in time to see Stryker and Bane grappling on the ground beside the car. Their voices are too muffled to make out what they’re saying well, but after a good hit that has Stryker’s eye swelling, they break apart.
The front door opens as Bane storms back in, still pissed off, and looking nothing like the man I’ve come to know. Walking right up to me, he dips down enough to press his shoulder into my stomach without breaking his stride. Air rushes out of me in a whoosh as my world flips upside down, and I’m using his ass to push myself up.
As he sits down on the couch in the media room, he pivots me so that I flop down onto his lap, head spinning from being slung around like a rag doll. He’s not even out of breath as he grips my chin so that I’m unable to hide, much less gloss over facts or dream of lying.
“Finish the story,” he demands through gritted teeth, dirt streaked across his jaw.
Like a deer in the headlights, my voice is a small squeak. “After that, I pretended to take my meds, but really spit them out the second they left. Starved myself for a week by dumping my food in the toilet, only drank straight out of the tap.”
