"I know, right?" I continued my one-sided conversation, my voice barely audible. "The worst part is, for a second, I liked it. The power. The way everything bent around me. The way they just disappeared."
I'd killed people today. Disintegrated them with a thought. The realization hit me again, making my stomach clench. Yet beneath the horror was something darker, more frightening, a whisper of satisfaction, of rightness.
"What kind of person does that make me?" I looked at Frank, who had no answers.
From the coffee table, Rook grunted as the medic applied some sort of glowing poultice to his wound. His eyes were closed, his breathing shallow, but I knew he was awake.
Probably heard every word of my fish confession.
"Hold still," the medic instructed him. "The neutralizing agent needs to penetrate the curse channels."
Rook's response was a low growl that made the medic roll her eyes.
"Werewolves," she muttered. "Always the worst patients."
Despite everything, I found myself smiling faintly at her exasperation. She worked methodically, her hands moving in intricate patterns over Rook's torso while she chanted in a language I didn't recognize. Slowly, the angry red of the burn began to fade, retreating back toward its point of origin.
"There," she wiped her brow with the back of her hand. "The curse is neutralized. Your natural healing should take care of the rest, but no shifting for at least twenty-four hours. Understood?"
Rook opened his eyes, fixing her with a look that would have wilted lesser beings. "Fine."
The medic packed up her supplies, nodded to me, and headed for the door. "He needs rest. And food. His healing will burn through calories quickly."
After she left, silence descended on the apartment. I stayed on the floor with Frank, unsure what to say. Rook remained on the coffee table, his chest rising and falling steadily, the remnants of the burn now just an angry red mark on his side.
"You should put Frank back in his spot," Rook's voice was rough, tired. "He's getting dizzy from all that rocking."
I looked down and realized I'd been unconsciously swirling Frank's bowl as my anxiety mounted and I had been stimming.
Damn.
I hadn't done that in a long time.
"Sorry, buddy," I carefully placed his bowl back on the counter. The blue marks on my arm had faded to a dull glow, but I could still feel the power thrum beneath my skin, waiting.
When I turned back, Rook had pushed himself up to a sitting position, his bare chest now fully visible. Despite everything, I couldn't help noticing the defined muscles of his chest and abdomen, the trail of dark hair that disappeared beneath the waistband of his jeans. A network of scars, some silvery with age, others newer, mapped across his skin like constellations.
"You're staring," he observed dryly..
Heat rushed to my face.
"Just checking your wound," I lied, even though we both knew better.
He raised an eyebrow but didn't push it. Instead, he swung his legs over the edge of the coffee table and patted the space beside him. "Sit."
I hesitated, then moved to join him, keeping a careful distance between us. "How do you feel?"
"Like I got hit with a death curse from a bargain basement cultist," he deadpanned. Then, seeing my expression, he added, "I've had worse. Much worse."
"I'm sorry," I blurted out. "This was my fault. I insisted on going out, and…"
"Stop," he cut me off. "The cultists would have found you eventually. Better in a public place with me than alone in a dark alley."
"But you got hurt because of me."
"I got hurt because it's my job to take hits for you," he gestured to me. "And I'd do it again."
I studied my hands, unable to meet his eyes. "I killed people today, Rook. Just erased them. And for a moment, it felt..." I trailed off, ashamed.
