Chapter 3
Bane
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“Stryker, you need toget some sleep, man.”
He swipes his shaggy, dark hair out of his face, just so he can narrow bleary, hostile green eyes on my face. “I’m fine. She’s going to freak out when she wakes up; she shouldn’t be alone.”
I sigh, gazing down at my oldest friend with pity as he pulls his wrist away from the girl's mouth. He’s completely torn up about turning her, not that Mason or I are upset at him in the slightest. Yeah, it changes shit for all of us, but either of us would have done the same damn thing if we’d been there when her heart was giving out. Yet Stryker’s trying to take all of the responsibility onto his shoulders, considers her his burden to bear, for better or worse.
Three days. It’s been three agonizingly long days waiting for her to wake up, and he hasn’t slept. The change clearly took or she’d be dead at this point. But never have we heard of it taking someone so long to heal after they’ve been bitten, even returning from the brink of death.
“She won’t be alone." Waiting until he's done brushing a stray droplet of blood from her lips, I offer him a hand to help him up out of the chair he pulled beside the bed that she’s currently lying in. “I’ll keep watch for a night while you crash.” We both cringe at my word choice before I backpedal. “Get a decent night's sleep. You think looking that manic, you won’t freak her out even worse than she’ll already be? She’s not just your responsibility, Stryker, she’s all of ours. Let us help.”
He holds my stare, looking absolutely wrecked. I understand, not that he sees that right now. Not only was she clearly kidnapped and in pain for gods know how long before we found her on the verge of death, but she was trapped in that trunk as the walls caved in around her. After the way Stryker grew up, it makes sense that he’d develop an instant connection with her over that, even if he’s never said a single word to the girl.
But where no one came to save him, he managed to save her.
Eventually he sighs, taking my hand and getting to his feet. “She wakes up, you’ll get me?”
I clap him on the back as he passes, taking my bed for the night while I take up his post in the chair. “You have my word.”
Nodding to himself, he scrubs a hand down his exhausted face, leaving the room. There isn’t a door in the frame; hasn’t been since the day he moved in. With a clear view of the hall, Mason not being particularly discreet as he finds any excuse to pass by and peek in on her progress, I sit down and settle in for the night. The chair’s not comfortable in the slightest, stolen from the dining room with a wooden back and arms, but at least it has a cushion.
I pull out my phone, checking the delivery status of Stryker’s new one since we destroyed his. 9-1-1 can trace calls, and seeing as this woman’s blood was all over the scene, yet without a body to show for it, we needed to sever every possible connection that we could. It’s the hardest part of being a shifter, the discretion that it requires simply to exist. Whether born or turned, the same rules apply. You can court a human, but can’t reveal yourself until the moment you try to turn them, when it’s too late for them to back out and blab without giving themselves away as well, or winding up dead if the change doesn’t take.
Yet no matter how much I try to distract myself with emails or games, my gaze keeps getting pulled back to our mystery woman. Stryker carefully and meticulously cleaned her up without undressing her to throw her in the tub, which I agree was the best call. By the shorts and sports bra, I’d wager that the asshole that kidnapped her snatched her while she was out running, and the fact that she was abducted and is going to wake up in a strange place? If we changed her clothes, even to tend to her wounds, she’d no doubt lose her shit, and with good reason.
She must have been terrified. How long was she trapped inside that trunk, imagining what that man would do to her when he stopped driving? Did she pass out during the first crash, or the second?
Why hasn’t she woken up yet?
That’s the hardest part, I think; all of the unknowns. We don’t know what she’ll be able to shift into, what happened to her, or hell, even the name of the woman that’s become the center of our lives. Everything’s changed, and none of us really know where to put that fact because we don’t even know who we changed everything for.
Her dark brown hair is brushed straight, hanging past her shoulders. Bright red lips are a sharp contrast to her skin, now paler than the sun kissed tan she had when we brought her here, like she’s fading away trapped in the house. A thin blanket is tucked around her despite the summer heat, Stryker attempting to offer her whatever coverage and security that he could. Tentatively, I press the back of my hand against her forehead to be sure she isn’t overheating, not really knowing what else to do.
Shifters don’t get sick. The twenty-four hours of the turned ones’ transitions sometimes results in a fever or tossing and turning, but she’s just been so still, not so much as a twitch these past three days. There aren’t any supernatural hospitals because they aren’t necessary, and it’s not like we can exactly ask the humans for help. Her wounds are healed now that the shrapnel has been removed, not so much as a scar left behind to remember the horrific event. She’s clearly changed, so there should be no reason she hasn’t woken up.
Unless Stryker didn’t use enough venom, pulled out too early.
It’s a stupid thought, but once it pops up in my head, it takes root until I can’t ignore it. I just keep looking at this woman, desperate to help, and my gums ache as the urge to bite her takes over all common sense.
“He’ll kill me,” I mutter to myself, well aware that no one can hear or protest.
Yet every minute that passes without someone telling me it’s a stupid idea, the more it starts to make a twisted sort of sense in my head. Mason, Stryker, and I are closer than brothers, choosing to form a nest rather than the typical choice of snake shifters to live solitary lives until taking a mate. Before I can talk myself out of the theory, I text it to Mason, waiting with baited breath for his response.
