“No, you didn’t.” I swung my legs over the side of the bed.
My boots were gone, but my jeans and shirt remained. That should’ve reassured me. It didn’t because I felt different.
Wrong.
Like something inside me had shifted, had unraveled and stitched itself back together into something else. I swallowed hard, rolling my shoulders.
My wounds, the bite, the bruises, the cracked ribs, they were all gone. Healed.
That shouldn’t have been possible. The realization struck like a hammer to my ribs, knocking the breath out of me. I snapped my head up and met Donovan’s gaze.
His expression didn’t change. But he knew.
“You should’ve killed me,” I spat.
Donovan sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. “Dang it, Declan. You think I came all this way just to put you down?”
I shoved up from the bed, ignoring the faint lingering ache in my muscles. “Yes.”
His eyes narrowed. “Well, then you don’t know me as well as you think you do.”
I hated the way my stomach twisted at that. Hated the fact that, deep down, I had hoped for that, hoped he wouldn’t do it.
Because I had wanted him to.
Because I couldn’t do it myself.
I took a step toward him.
“Donovan, you don’t get it.” My voice was low, shaking. I pressed a hand to my chest where there was no heartbeat. “This isn’t something you fix. This isn’t something you help.”
Donovan’s gaze darkened, but he didn’t back down. “I’m not giving up on you.”
I clenched my fists. Frustration burned hot under my skin, twisting with something too raw, too painful to name.
“You should,” I snapped. “Because I won’t be the Declan you knew.”
Silence stretched between us, thick and heavy. Donovan held my gaze, and for a moment, I saw it. That same stubborn, reckless determination that had always been there.
The same look he had when we were kids, when he told me he’d watch my back no matter what.
The same look he had when he found me in that barn and refused to let me die.
I looked away first. My hands trembled, so I curled them into fists, digging my nails into my palms. He was wrong. He should’ve ended me when he had the chance.
I wanted him to. I needed him to. Hell, I practically begged him, but instead of doing the merciful thing, he chose to keep me alive for his own selfish reasons.
Maybe that wasn’t fair. Maybe it was a cruel way of looking at things. But right now, I didn’t care. I was just so angry.
Angry at him for refusing to listen. Angry at myself for still being here. Because maybe a small, pathetic part of me didn’t want to die.
Maybe I wasn’t ready to and that made me furious. I clenched my jaw, hands shaking at my sides.
The anger burned through me like wildfire, mixing with something deeper, something rawer. Fear. Resentment. A twisted kind of relief.
I hated it. I hated him for forcing me to face it and I hated myself most of all for not fighting harder to make him do what needed to be done.
“Get out,” I told Donovan in a harsh tone.
