Page 16 of Red

I let the suppressed magic gates open. Starting at my toes, I breathe in through my nose, shoving the heat down as it builds up my legs, then moves into my torso and leaves through my arms. I let the fieriness build and build until the ice water around me is steaming.

Starting with all the crucial injuries works better as I get weaker. I bite down harder onto the damp cloth as my right knee begins to burn. A scream comes up my throat, muffled by the cloth. Tears drip off onto my neck. I take a short break, then work on my ribs and one lung. The heat spreads in my chest until it burns, like holding myself on top of a flame. It grows, worsening each moment until steam rises from the tub yet again. Tears stream, and I choke. My ribs pulse as the heat of magic pulls the splinters back together. I slide further down toward the cool water running from the copper faucet.

My cuts are next but easy. I sink my arm under the water and watch as the burning sensation grows less intense than before. My skin goes from bloody, to red, to a light purple remaining over the cuts.

By the time I’m done, the entire bathroom is filled with steam. The windows have drops of condensation running down them on either side of the tub. I climb out, and without the energy to shake, I grab a towel and dry off. Checking in the mirror, I do a sweep to see if I missed any cuts. All that remains are bright purple and red bruises. I can’t make the blood that pooled go away, so it’ll be some time until they disappear.

Other than exhaustion from the process and the day, I can move. My legs don’t buckle as I walk to the bed and pull the huge duvet onto the floor. Once underneath the thin, cream-colored sheet, I rest my head on the pillow. My fingers trace over where my broken ribs were, sensing the remnants of magic. It takes a few days for it to go away, especially from broken bones.

I succumb to the sleep I need. Pratt and I chase each other in my dream. Mom yells from the house, telling us to hurry up and get inside, as we roll around the yard. I wish I could go back in time to when it wasn’t just Pratt who felt obligated to keep me safe. Now, he’s put me in the same situation, except it isn’t the same. Stark follows orders from the Elders, and he’d never disobey them. Stark may have tried to help after I got attacked, because surely his plan went too far and he regrets it. I can only hope he will realize I’m better away at my house, where Mom’s homemade curtains still hang, and Pratt’s room still sits full of his things. Away from those who hate me, and where I can be me.

Chapter 8

Light fills the room, and a small table is set up beside the bed, containing a breakfast spread of fruit and water. I did say sunrise. I sit up and take a sip from the glass and look at my arms.

Shit.

I slink off the bed and grab the bandages to wrap the bruises. I can hide the bruises on both forearms and my waist if I throw on a T-shirt, and my knee will be easy to cover too. I don’t bother with my head, hoping no one remembers what it looked like. A huge bruise remains above my eye, and my lip has the faint line of a cut still.

I need to think more, be smart about my actions. The act of wrapping fatigues my limbs, which are too heavy to hold up for long, so I go back to sleep.

Later, I wake to a different spread of food next to me and the lingering smell of wolf and pine. I don’t bother with it and drift again.

The next day, I think of leaving the room, but anyone else would be bedbound. I accept my current position and go back to sleep.

On the third day, when I find breakfast waiting for me, I’m not surprised.

Later, during dinner, I can hear voices in the house.

“Two funerals in a week.”

“There will be no funeral,” Stark says.

Probably be better if there was. Who needs her? I think the thoughts are from Nikki, but I’m not sure. It’s definitely a woman, though.

“Get out.”

I hear a few gasps.

“What?” A woman’s voice louder than the man’s.

“Stark.” That’s Otis.

“It’s my house. If you want to argue with me, we can take it outside.” The threat of an Alpha is never supposed to be taken as a joke.

“Maybe it’s best you go home, Nikki. We’ll see you tomorrow for dinner.”

A door slams, and I get tired of listening. I grab a book from the overstuffed shelves and bring it to bed, but sleep finds me before the pages do.

A week goes by before I leave my bedroom. It’s the middle of the day and no one should be here. I need something other than these four walls to look at, and my body is filled with a strong desire to find some real air for a few minutes before anyone comes back.

I pull the door open slowly and step out,

“Aloka, you’re awake.” Stark jumps up off the floor. Those eyes are open, combing over me. Why is he here?

“Uh, yeah. I thought you’d be gone.” So much for fresh air. If he’s here, I can’t go walking around like I’m not hurt. I head right back into my room and close the door.

In seconds, it opens. Guess the version of Stark with boundaries only exists when he thinks I’m dying in a bed.