Figures.
“Quieter. Although, no less trouble for the four-legs,” Gideon teases, with a scratch behind the wolf’s ear.
“Ha. I think it’s going to be hard to explain to our kids why their Dad is a wolf all the time, no?”
Rowan is tired of being left out of the conversation. So, he barks—loudly. They startle, and he uses the distraction to turn on his heel—heels—and make for the front door of the hospital. He’s going to see Jay, and he’s going to make sure his alpha knows he’s never supposed to die again.
“Hey, Rowan! Wait!”
They catch him inside the vestibule, where the security guard gives Gideon a wide berth before noticing Rowan. At Gideon’s dead stare, he backs off and raises his hands in surrender.
“Bill, we’re taking our mate’s dog up to see if we can improve his health outcome,” he hears Finn say hurriedly behind him
Rowan is stymied by the buttons on the wall outside the elevator but as soon as the door opens–thankfully empty and going up–he enters, urging his mates to hurry the fuck up with a low bark.
Gideon snorts again and hits the button for the top floor.
The smells of blood and grief—of pain, sickness, and death—make Rowan’s wolf sneeze, so he sticks his sensitive nose in Gideon’s back. It’s hardly any better, with its scent of hospital soap and Gideon’s thunderous fear.
He can’t help but sneeze twice more in the small space.
When the door opens, he doesn’t wait for the others; he just follows his sensitive nose to the end of the hallway, dodging nurses and other pedestrians to bowl open the door.
His alpha is lying propped up on a large, wide hospital bed with a pale Grayson tucked in close, nose pressed up against Jay’s throat. Leo is sitting on a chair tipped back on two legs so he can prop his feet up on the bed while Jay absently runs the tips of his fingers under the cuff of Leo’s pant leg.
The room smells of blood, smoky pine, and patchouli mixed with basil-vanilla.
“Holy shit!” Leo yells.
All three of them jolt at his abrupt entrance, and Grayson rolls to the side to get up for a closer look—just in time for Rowan to leap the ten feet from the door onto the bed. He lands on his feet (all four) over top of his surprised alpha.
Rowan expects the wolf to want to dominate the injured enigma, and he braces to wrestle him back. It’s harder to ignorehis instincts in this form, but he will not take this as a win—let alone one that they haven’t earned.
It’s a fucked-up way to think about it, but it makes sense to the wolf.
This is our mate. We love him. This isn’t an opportunity, dumbass. We almost lost him.
The wolf whines as the reality of that sinks in, and all desire to dominate or gloat immediately evaporates. It’s such a horrific reality that they’re licking Jay’s face while tears fall from his eyes onto the bandages covering his alpha’s chest.
“Rowan. Shit. That’s gross. Stop.”
So he lies down on Jay’s legs to get his point across better. He sticks his nose in under his injured arm, giving the occasional lick to the inside of his elbow. He lets the fear and shame of the morning come forward so he can lay them at the proverbial feet of their alpha—even if he has yet to speak the words.
It’s merely preparation for when he can find them.
He finally feels Jay’s hand petting over his head.
“It’s okay now, Ro. It’s okay. You’re good.”
And it will be.
Now that he’s here with Jay, Rowan can finally begin to make sense of it all.
12
Through Teeth and Tears (Jay)
Rowan is a real-life werewolf. Like the stories they learned in school. Like the ones Finn reads Nix and Luca when they ask — and sometimes when they don’t. It’s not fantasy or history; it’s reality.
