Page 101 of The Turning of the Tables

It’s happened once or twice.

Not particularly fun, and I destroyed the sheets.

Why? You okay?

I definitely destroyed the sheets.

But are you okay?

I don’t think I’ll ever be okay again.

The phone buzzed,and I ignored it. I wasn’t in the mood to talk to Elliot—to explain the horror of being ripped from a nightmare mid-shift, panicking, panicking again because that made the shift hit harder, and then losing any sense of who or what I was. I must have gotten tangled in the sheets, because I had ripped them to bits.

It was all murky in my head,but I was pretty sure Noah had shifted and come in and beat the shit out of me in wolf form, if the number of bruises, scratches, and one really clear bite mark on my shoulder were any indication. I assume he’d had to in order to get me to stop panicking or keep me from doing something worse to myself.

He’d also helped to clean all of them and bandage both of us, since my hands were too shaky—once I had hands again—to do either.

I did not want to explain any of that to Elliot.

And I didn’t want him to hear how awful I sounded.

Are you hurt?

Nothing serious.

The phone buzzed again. I ignored him, again.

Seth, please talk to me.

I need to get ready for work.

It’s fine.

Most of the bruising and scratches—and the very obvious bite mark—were hidden by my clothes. Or they would be if I wore long sleeves. It was warm enough in early May that I normally wouldn’t have, but I’d put on something light and hoped I didn’t overheat rather than answer questions about why I looked like I’d gotten in a fight with a wolf. Because I had.

Noah had immediately shifted back into human form when I had, and while he wasn’t in perfect condition, he looked a hell of a lot better than I did. Scratches mostly, no bites, and one elbow that looked like it was a little swollen.

Clearly Noah was a better fighter than I was. At least infur form. It made sense, I supposed. He’d been a wolf for fifteen years longer than I had.

Moving slowly, I put on a clean, non-ripped, non-bloody pair of underwear, then pulled on a white undershirt to go under one of my long sleeved button-downs.

My phone buzzed again.

And I kept ignoring it.

Until I looked over and realized that this time it wasn’t Elliot, it was Maginot, and then I tripped over my own uncoordinated feet trying to get to the damn phone and came down hard on the corner of the platform bedframe.

“Goddamn shit!” I cursed at the pain—sharp and new, rather than achingly old and familiar.

The wooden corner had cut into my hip deeply enough that there was a smear of blood on my palm, which I’d instinctively slammed down over the sting. Having determined that I was, in fact, bleeding, I put my hand back over the wound.

The sound of running feet drew my attention to Noah, who rushed into the room, barefoot and wearing only a pair of boxers.

“Seth! What happened?”

I grimaced up at him from the floor. “I tripped over myself,” I replied a little sullenly, pulling back my palm to show him the now-somewhat-larger smear.

“Jesus,” came his muttered response. “Can you call in sick today?”