Page 30
His parents, covered in blood and glass, their bodies twisted and broken, pronounced dead at the scene.
Crack.
Doc lying crumpled on the cabin floor.
Crack.
His sisters in the sterile hospital room, their brains dead.
Crack.
Doc living in terror as he ran for his life.
Crack.
The countless files of omegas going into the Seerinoga hospital to never be seen again.
Crack.
Crack.
Crack.
With each swing of his axe, new visions and memories filled Royce’s mind until he couldn’t tell them apart. He was wound up, his muscles taut, his chest tight, his blood pumping furiously as indignation and wrath coursed through him.
What the hell was wrong with this world?
Was nothing protected? Was nothing sacred?
What was the point of it all, living, loving, when all it amounted to was suffering?
Covered in sweat and his arms full of firewood, Royce went back into the cabin. He lit every furnace and got them smoldering before he went to the kitchen. He found a bucket and a scrubber and a pile of old rags under the sink. Filling it up, he started the terrible task of cleaning up the blood. Royce would need to chop more firewood, but it was less pressing now that he got the furnaces started.
He probably should have cleaned up sooner, before it had the chance to dry and settle into the little woven rug, but blast it all, he couldn’t leave Doc shivering in the cabin.
Royce toiled under his labors for hours. Not that he minded, but the thing about cleaning and chopping wood is it kept your hands busy while your mind was free to wander. That was a dangerous thing for Royce right now. Suppressed memories of the car crash and decades of lonely nights engulfed him, threatening to pull him under.
When he aged out of the system, Royce vowed he would never revisit the darkest recesses of his mind, forcing himself to move on from the terrible memories and the nightmares of blood and hopelessness. His had been a solitary existence, but it was content, quiet even once he left the service. Meeting his mate, learning what he was running from, and almost losing him, all within twenty-four hours, was forcing it to the surface in a spectacular mess.
Chapter sixteen
Theodore
He hadn’t the faintest idea where the heck he was. He was, however, aware of the fact that a jackhammer had taken up residence inside his skull and was currently trying to break free. Next, he noted the sharp pain in his stomach had reduced to a dull ache.
He tried to force his eyes open. Whoever thought something as simple as opening one’s eyes could be so difficult? He fought and pushed, and still the darkness persisted. He tried again; the only result was an increase in his head’s pounding and an odd gurgling noise.
“Hey, go easy.”
Someone was with him in the darkness. Their voice was muffled and distant as if echoing through a long tunnel. That thought should terrify him, yet the voice was comforting. His body relaxed as the disembodied voice washed over him, speaking about medicine and blankets. It didn’t matter, so long as that voice never stopped.
Large and warm hands, he assumed belonging to the disembodied voice, held his head up, and a thick liquid was poured down his throat. He was too tired to try and fight it, and it tasted faintly of cherry which was pleasant. The voice continued talking, but Theodore was already slipping into the darkness.
Light pierced the fuzzy shadows shrouding his consciousness. Theodore tried to sit up, to turn his head from the onslaught of light. His muscles wouldn’t move; they were too heavy.
The light came into focus. It was still too bright, but he could make out shapes and colors. Rich brown walls covered in knots and grain, rows of shelves made from the same rich brown. A black rectangle in the corner with a long chimney running up to the ceiling, orange light danced in the center of the black rectangle.
He was in the veterinarian’s cabin; from the looks of it on the sofa nestled into his blanket cocoon. He was surprised to find he was warm. Theodore had previously come to the conclusion that the cabin would never be warm.
