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Chapter 1
Cole
My fingers twitched as the nurse slid the needle into my arm a second time.
She gave me an apologetic smile. “Sorry,” she said softly. “You’re kind of a hard stick. Do you need a break? We can stop if it’s hurting too much.”
I didn’t know how to tell her that my jumpy nature had nothing to do with the prick of the needle and everything to do with the fact that the last time I was being used as a pin cushion, it was while I was strapped to a metal chair in a fish cannery.
“I’m fine,” I said, giving her a tight smile. “Just not much for needles.”
Being used as an unwilling clinical trial will do that to you, I wanted to sneer, but didn’t. It wasn’t like she knew about what had happened to me, and saying something shitty like that to a stranger was a hell of a good way to make yourself look like an asshole to someone who was doing nothing more than being nice.
She finally struck the vein, and I watched my blood flow into the pressurized plastic tubing and into the vial at the end of it. I was relieved to see it flowing relatively quickly—Marley had been right about making sure to hydrate before my appointment. I’d fill up the requisite seven vessels in no time.
I lifted my eyes from the needle and looked up at the pockmarked ceiling tiles and fluorescent lights above me, letting my mind drift to a more pleasant place while I waited. I thumbed my wedding band on my left finger—a welcome and grounding reminder that I was okay, that I was safe with Marley and Noah. That the needle in my arm wasn’t pumping some mystery drug into my body.
I closed my eyes and did the breathing exercises my therapist had been teaching me—in for four, hold for six, out for eight.
After doing that for a few moments, the nurse pressed a square of gauze over the needle and slid it out.
“All done. Hold that for me right there while I get this sorted, and I’ll bandage you up,” she said cheerfully.
I nodded, pressing two fingers against the puncture mark and bending my arm upward to apply pressure to it. I zoned out again as she packed my blood samples away, tuning back only when she came back with some self-adhering bandaging.
“We only have pink. I hope that’s okay.”
I chuckled. “It’s fine,” I said. “My masculinity isn’t so fragile.”
“Thank goodness,” she said as she wrapped my arm twice and tore off the tape. “You’d be amazed at how many men are willing to bleed or deal with tearing their arm hair out rather than wear a pink bandage for a couple hours.”
“I know exactly the kind of guy you’re talking about,” I said. “Unfortunately, I work with some of them.”
“Ugh. You really do get it, then,” she said.
“Cassie, is he done yet?” a voice said from down the hall.
“Oh, y-yes, sorry, doctor. He’s on his way,” she said, “I should have had you in the exam room five minutes ago, sorry.”
“No worries,” I said with a smile. “Which one are we in?”
“Number eight,” she said brightly.
“Thanks,” I said.
I walked down the hall and stepped into the room where the doctor waited for me. It was the same doctor who’d seen over Travis’s transition—it seemed a smart idea to see someone who was well-versed in the intricacies of genetics when it came to a medication meant to undo the expression of lycan genes.
He gestured for me to have a seat in one of the chairs, and I was grateful not to have to get myself undressed and on the exam table. This was already my third appointment with him, so I’d hoped we wouldn’t have to deal with all of that mess.
I took a seat in one of the plush chairs, and he leaned against the edge of the exam table, crossing his arms, my chart in one of his hands.
“How are you feeling?” he asked me.
“Stronger this week,” I said. “I think you were right—the fatigue had more to do with the fact that I wasn’t eating than any side effects from the injections.”
He nodded. “And how is the post-traumatic stress?”
I pressed my lips together. That one was a new diagnosis.
