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As if he couldn’t stand to be touched by me.
I hope like hell I’m wrong, but my stomach twists at the memory of the look on his face. Something tells me that whatever existed between me and Dare before the night my witch emerged, we’ll never get it back. Things will never be the same between us. We’ve both been too hurt, too damaged.
Ridge offers me a hand. “He’s in a bad place. He’s not thinking straight.”
I stare at his palm. Ridge has the most capable hands I’ve ever seen, with a strong, square palm and long fingers covered in calluses. I accept his help, and he pulls me to my feet. But instead of letting me stand on my own, he tugs me into his embrace, dropping his head to press his cheek to the top of my head.
“We’re all in new territory,” he murmurs, his breath stirring my hair. “Give it time.”
His hard torso anchors me to the present. I lean against him and bury my face against his t-shirt, taking a couple deep breaths until the lump in my throat fades and the tumult of magic inside me calms. Ridge’s scent surrounds me—woodsy and spicy and uniquely him.
It’s one of my favorite smells in the world, and it was even before the man himself came to mean so much to me. Now, I think I’d bathe in his scent if I could.
Finally, he pulls back enough to give me a sweet kiss with just enough heat behind it to make me forget how awful I feel. “Come on,” he says softly. “Let’s go help Dare.”
Inside the cabin, Trystan and Archer have already stretched the injured shifter out on the couch and are back in the kitchen, digging around for supplies. Archer’s filling up a bowl with hot water and soap, while Trystan’s rifling around in the pantry.
“Doesn’t this stupid cabin have a first aid kit?” he gripes over his shoulder as we appear in the doorway.
“Yeah, it’s in the bathroom,” Ridge replies, ignoring Trystan’s attitude. “I’ll get it.”
I peek in on my wounded mate to find him staring at the ceiling, h
is entire body shivering. Coming down off his adrenaline dump, most likely. My heart beats hard in my chest as I hurry to the bedroom and grab a clean blanket from the closet. If his body temperature takes a big drop, he’ll have an even harder time trying to heal the wounds.
His dark gaze is unfocused when I return to the living room and step up to the edge of the couch. He’s staring at the ceiling, sucking air into his lungs in deep, gulping breaths. I can only imagine the pain he’s feeling right now. He doesn’t even look at me as I drape the quilt over him.
I want to speak, but I don’t know what to say. And if I do speak and he keeps ignoring me, I think it might break my heart. So I just stand watch over him in silence until the other men return with their arms loaded down with supplies.
Ridge pulls the coffee table closer to the couch and sits down on it to inspect the massive wound on Dare’s ankle. As he begins to minister to the wound, he glances up at Dare’s face. “Want to tell us what happened?”
Dare grunts, finally showing a sign of consciousness as he tries to focus on Ridge. “I went hunting.”
“Figures.” Trystan’s voice is harsh as he takes a seat beside Ridge. He yanks back the blanket, exposing all the lacerations in Dare’s side, before he jams a rag into the soapy water. “You just can’t fucking help yourself.” He presses the rag to Dare’s rib cage, swiping it over the wounds.
Dare groans, closing his eyes as if fighting off the sudden rush of pain.
“A little more gently, maybe?” Archer suggests, glaring at Trystan. He stares pointedly until Trystan pulls back on the strength of his movements, and then he leans over Dare’s head and peers into his eyes. “Pupils look okay. No concussion, thankfully.”
Ridge has bypassed using a rag on Dare’s mangled ankle, likely because any touch on all that raw, open muscle and nerve-endings would be incredibly painful. He has a towel tucked beneath Dare’s leg as he upends the alcohol bottle, dousing the area.
Dare inhales sharply, his fingers digging into the couch cushions.
“You went hunting for food, or… what?” Archer asks, rolling a Q-tip over a cut in Dare’s forehead.
“Witches,” Dare repeats, his eyes scrunched shut. All three of the other shifters are pouring or rubbing alcohol into his wounds, so I imagine he feels like one big fireball of pain.
“You went hunting witches,” Archer repeats, his tone hard. “Are you out of your mind?”
“Are they coming onto our lands?” Ridge asks, intent on cleaning the debris away from Dare’s bone.
“No. I went looking for them outside our territory.” Dare’s voice is thick, his eyes still squinted shut and his face betraying his agony.
Archer rips open a new package of white gauze. “You left the protection of pack lands? Dare, why would you do that?”
Trystan scoffs. “Because he has a fucking death wish.”
Dare snarls at Trystan, one fist shooting out with deadly force. But Trystan just ducks the blow and rolls his eyes, shoving Dare back into the cushions with one hand.
