“You can?—”
Clem stumbles past me and all but collapses on the mattress. She doesn’t even bother to tuck herself in before her rumbling breaths alert me to the fact that she’s unconscious. Carl must have also used his mer-magic to dry her off, so at least she’s not soaking the bedding. I open the closet and pull out a spare blanket. When I turn back to the bed, I find Shrimp has climbed his way up beside her, spooning his human.
Careful not to wake her, I drape the blanket over Clem’s prone form.
Then, because no one is watching, I scratch Shrimp’s ears and murmur a quick, “Good boy.”
Heading upstairs, I check my phone to make sure there haven’t been any issues at the bar. The only message is from Rodney, who I left in charge, saying that closing went fine and they left the till in the safe.
After brushing my teeth and changing into sleep clothes, I eye my massive, comfortable California-king bed. The selfish part of my brain tells me I should lie down, go to sleep, and forget about her. Clementine is a grown woman, and it’s not like I can help her any more than I have.
Grumbling curses, I grab my favorite pillow and stalk back downstairs. There’re a few couches in the sunroom, and I stretch out on the longest one, shoving the pillow under my head and glaring toward the darkened windows.
I fucking dare a hunter to come onto my territory.
7
CLEMENTINE
Shrimp’ssnores wake me up.
My massive dog only snores when he sleeps in bed with me, and he only sleeps in bed with me when he thinks I’m scared or sick. The pup is intuitive like that. Normally, he prefers to lie sprawled out in the middle of the floor—I think because he gets hot easily.
But this morning, Shrimp lies plastered to my side, doing a pitch-perfect imitation of a chainsaw in my ear.
I roll away from the racket and wince at the jab of pain in my abdomen. The discomfort brings the last few days back to me.
The truth about Luke.
The fight and the knife wound.
The frantic drive from Nashville to north Georgia.
The encounter with the most judgmental werewolf to ever exist.
The bad news from the healing witch.
Carl’s fear.
Out of everything that happened, that last one hurts the most, even compared to the still-unhealed wound in my side.
When our parents decided they were done raising kids and fucked off, I did not take it well. I let my resentment and hormones make all my decisions for me. Very bad decisions. There were many times during my teenage years I didn’t even feel like I was in my body. It was as if I were watching from a few feet away, haunting a girl who had been hurt by the two people who were supposed to love her unconditionally, and so she rebelled against everything.
She made it make sense that no one would love her.
But Carl always did. No matter what, my brother was on my side, supporting me and offering an endless round of chances. He never wrote me off, though everyone told him he should.
Once the fog of grief cleared enough that I recognized the damage I had done to him, I couldn’t stay in Folk Haven. Guilt was an illness that could only be cured with distance.
Or so I thought. Because nine years later, I feel just as shitty about how I treated the one person who did love me unconditionally. And I only came back because I have violence on my tail.
“I’m a shitty sister,” I mutter to the ceiling of Griffith’s guest room. “Carl deserves better than me.”
Griffith obviously agrees, from the contemptuous looks he sent my way. Honestly, if I hadn’t been on edge from the gash in my stomach I was hiding, I probably would’ve taken his ire last night as my due. But when I’m in pain, I get selfish and short-tempered.
With a groan, I push myself upright, and either the noise or my new position wakes Shrimp up. He lifts his blocky head with a huff, stretches his mile-long legs, and yawns wide enough to show off all his teeth. Then he gives me a few searching sniffs, and I push him away while also scratching his ears.
“I’m fine. I bet you need the bathroom, huh?”
