Griffith drops to his knees, startling me with his proximity as he brings his face level with my wound.
“This looks fresh. How did you cut yourself like this?” Griffith’s voice is harsh and has me bristling.
“I didn’t cut myself, asshole. Someone else had that pleasure. Now, if you would kindly fuck off, I’ll wrap myself back up and get the hell out of your bar to hopefully never see you again.”
Griffith, instead of following my very clear instructions, flares his nostrils and tilts his head enough to spot the used bandages bundled on the sink.
The ones that are almost soaked through.
“You’re not healing,” he growls. “Why aren’t you healing?”
“Griffith”—I grind his name through my clenched teeth—“get out.”
He hesitates for another moment, then straightens. Standing, he looms over me in an aggravating display of genetics. I’m tall compared to many women, clocking in at five-ten, but Griffith still has a handful of inches on me, and he’s not afraid to use them.
“I will wait outside the door. When you’re bandaged, we will go see Madeline.” He names the local healing witch, who I’m briefly relieved to know is still practicing. “I’ll call Carl to meet us there.”
“No.”
“No?”
Confusion twists the wolf’s face, and I hate how even though I despise his personality, I still find him attractive. He’s allmuscles and dimples and strong fingers, and when he’s talking to anyone other than me, he’s got a grin that could melt an iceberg.
“The whole reason you showed up here was to find your brother,” Griffith points out.
“To tell him something.” I hedge. “Not to talk about the injury.”
As I watch, the skin of his jaw goes white from how hard he grits his teeth.
All the while, my side throbs fiercely, the torn skin a small fire of agony I can’t fully ignore.
“I don’t lie to Carl. Nothing you can say will make me keep this from him.” Griffith leans closer, his slightly too-long dark blond hair brushing his cheeks. “We’re going to the healer. And I’m calling him. That’s final.”
“Stop talking to me like I’m a child.”
“Then stop acting like one!”
“I’m not the one breaking shit!” I wave at the door behind him.
Griffith pinches the bridge of his nose as he breathes in deep once, twice, a third time.
Then, surprising the hell out of me, he speaks calmly. “Clementine, you’re hurt, you’re bleeding, and I want to take you to a healer. Please, gods, just let me take you to the witch.”
And damn thatplease. The word is an axe, sinking past my defensive exterior.
Then Shrimp whines, as if in agreement, and my last bit of resistance evaporates.
“Fine.”
Griffith blinks. “Really?”
“Yes. Fine. You can take me to a healer.” I planned to go anyway, just on my own.
“And we’ll go in my truck?” The fact that he asks instead of demands helps his case. “You’ll let me drive you?”
“Shrimp is coming.” I glare up at the werewolf, daring him to try dismissing my dog again.
“All right. He’ll come.”
