Page 23 of Red

Placing my fork down, I look down both sides the table, focusing on the white-haired Elder Lunin. “I’m right here. I’m not worried about being alone. If I can be alone at my house, that’d be preferred.”

“You’re not going to make it out there alone without your brother anymore. A human has no business in the Toridge territory alone,” Lunin says.

“I—”

“You can stay here and that’s an order.”

Even Stark settles back into his seat. Guess white-haired means cut-throat. I sink low and bow my head. What on earth was Pratt thinking? The full moon is soon, and how is this going to work?

The rest of dinner drags on long after everyone’s done eating, as they finalize more plans for the next day. The cohort is set for a group mission, making it perfect for my mini day adventure.

The Elder who sat next to me—Dino, I learn—gives me the lightest hug before he leaves, barely squeezing. If he was close with Pratt, I wish I knew more. If I could trust him, then he could persuade the rest of the Elders to change their opinion.

You don’t know what they’ll do, Pratt always warned me.

If only he knew this might be worse—hearing people talk about you like you don’t exist, then expecting you to be fragile.

“Thanks for the great dinner.” The largest Elder smacks the back of his hand across Stark’s torso as he walks past to the door.

Stark’s face tightens into something I’ve never seen before.

The rest of them shuffle out the door with small goodbyes and pleasantries.

The house quiets, and I sulk back to my bed.

Stark doesn’t knock, though I left my door open. He grabs the medical supplies and crosses the hallway, slamming the door behind him. How polite of him. I roll my eyes.

This might be my dumbest decision yet—so, so dumb—but I have to know. I keep light on my feet and pause outside his dark, walnut-stained door, the black metal handle shy of an inch from my hand. I should knock, but he barges in all the time. There’s a small grunting noise from the other side. That’s it—I’m taking a page out of Stark’s notebook.

I enter with no plans of turning around.

He’s standing in front of a large mirror angled in the corner of his room. His room . . . it’s even more magnificent than the one I’ve been staying in. The large four-poster bed is covered in more intricate versions of the running wolves and books. There are even more books in here, and I want to run my fingers over the spines. It smells even more like him—pine, wolf, and that mystery scent.

Another grunt comes from the corner and I drop my gaze from the shelves of words and knowledge.

Stark’s shirt is off, and wow—my mind wants to reach out to touch each line of his muscles. In shape is almost an insulting way to explain it. A large black wolf silhouette is tattooed across his right shoulder—of course he has a damn tattoo of himself. I stifle a laugh and lower my gaze to the mirror. Huge gashes slash across his chest. My breath stalls for a second, and I step closer.

“Get out.” He glares back at me in the mirror with the most intense expression.

Whatever. He can say what he wants, but I can help somehow.

I pick up the saline solution off the floor in front of the mirror and pour it onto a cloth as the temperature in the space rockets in the tight area around us. He can be as mad as he wants.

Rising up to his chest, I edge around to face him. His reflection towers behind me in the mirror watching as I assess the wounds and try not to think of the small space between his chest and the glass.

I don’t know how to do this without raising suspicion beyond comprehension, so I dab the wounds. He growls in response, but drops his own hands away.

I continue across the top lines of his torn flesh until the cloth is covered in blood. As I start the whole process again with a new, clean cloth, I adjust to that tightness in my chest. It’s a claw mark, half an inch or more deep in some places. This is because of me.

Be lucky if he can walk when he gets back.

Jocko wasn’t exaggerating like I expected. An odd shiver runs down my spine. How did he stay so calculated all night?

He flinches away when I touch the deepest part across the muscles of his stomach, and my gut clenches. I can’t hurl on his damn feet. The cuts are too deep, but I can’t sew him back together. If I heat the solution, it could help, but he’s going to have a lot of questions. On the other hand, leaving him like this is cruel.

“Don’t move.” I pick up the saline bottle and the remaining cloths, carrying them to the open ensuite and turn on the water. Washing my hands, that scent hits my nose. I turn the soap bottle and see cedarwood spelled out in cursive. So not the time to be happy about naming it.

Refocusing, I tilt the bottle and angle my fingers through the bottle’s opening into the solution. I’ve never done this before. The heat flows from me and my hand burns to my fingertips with nowhere for the magic energy to go, so it hurts even more. I hold out long enough for steam to rise out of the bottle, then place the straw cap back on. I switch off the tap and grab the cloths.