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“I was pissed, okay?” Dare snaps, closing his eyes as Archer uses an alcohol wipe to prod at a wound on his neck. “I went looking for witches to attack to let off some steam.”
I cringe, looking away so that no one will notice the hot tears gathering in my eyes. Dare’s hatred is like a living thing, sucking up all the air in the room. He didn’t even care who he hurt, as long as he could take his frustrations out on someone. And to think, he could just as easily have hurt me as any other witch.
“Well, we can see how well that all worked out for you,” Ridge says shortly, sounding more miffed than usual. “I can’t do much about this hole in your leg. You’re missing a half-acre of skin cells.”
“A lot of this isn’t going to be treatable with a basic first aid kit,” Archer adds. “We need help.”
“Can I help?” I lean over the couch, eyeing the wounds they’ve already cleaned. I don’t know what I’m offering—it’s not like I’m some kind of nurse or medical doctor. But I’ve done my fair share of wound patching thanks to Uncle Clint, despite the fact that we never had many medical supplies around either.
But Dare’s gaze snaps to me, and he bucks, dislodging all the gauze, tape, and bloody wipes lying on his body in his haste to get away from me. There’s chaos for a few moments as the other three men calm him and get him to lie back down.
With my heart nearly pounding out of my chest, I retreat to the kitchen, feeling as if he’s punched me in the gut.
I settle on the chair in front of my half-eaten plate of breakfast and reach for my orange juice. Only ten, maybe fifteen minutes have passed since I sat here eating with the three shifters. I’d just started to feel like we could get through this together when Dare came back and brought all my insecurities with him.
When he was less coherent in the yard, he let me touch him when we sank to the ground. I thought that meant he wasn’t afraid of me, not like I feared he would be. Instead, it seems like he’s just as disgusted by me as I dreaded. So much so that he doesn’t want me anywhere near him.
Dare may have physically returned to us, but I don’t have him back yet. Not truly.
Maybe I never will.
7
Sable
The clock on the wall audibly ticks away the minutes as I sit alone in the kitchen, agonizing over the way Dare looked at me.
My fork scrapes against the plate as I move the remaining eggs around, but I can’t bring myself to take another bite. The food I already ate before Dare came back to us has turned into a hurricane of nausea inside me, and if I eat anything else, I’m afraid I’ll throw up.
So I just finish my orange juice instead, thinking fondly of Trystan’s awkward shuffle back to the table with the glass. He was sweet then, reminding me that there’s a nice guy under all that macho bluster of his.
I may not understand what it’s like to be a shifter or to lead a pack, but I do think I’m starting to understand my companions. Trystan comes off like an asshole a lot of the time, but I feel like maybe he just overcompensates with his “alpha-ness” when he feels like things are spinning out of control. I can understand that motivation. I’m still trying to work on a coping mechanism myself—one that doesn’t end with me curled into a fetal position, unable to catch my breath.
But Dare…
God, I understand his pain. I understand how deeply that pain is rooted in his past and the way he lost his entire pack to the shifters’ mortal enemy. What I can’t fully comprehend is how quickly he could turn his back on me. How quickly he turned cold.
Ridge, Trystan, and Archer file into the kitchen about fifteen minutes later, all three of them looking exhausted. Their sudden presence startles me, and I sit up, swiping at the tears that have semi-dried on my cheeks. No use adding my private blubbering to an already messed up situation.
None of them are covered in blood, which I guess is a good sign that Dare hasn’t bled out on the couch while I’ve been sitting here staring at a plate of cold eggs.
“Anyone want coffee?” Archer asks, voice subdued. He doesn’t wait for an answer before he grabs the carafe and sets about brewing another pot. Good thing too, since nobody bothers to reply. There’s a strange air of shock hanging over the whole kitchen, as if none of us can fully believe what just happened.
What shifter leaves behind protected wolf pack lands and throws himself into a fight with a witch coven? Does Dare really have a death wish?
As Ridge begins gathering our dirty dishes from breakfast, Trystan sits down heavily next to me. His shoulder nudges mine as he looks down and gives me a once-over. “You okay?”
I shrug, deflecting his question with my own. “How’s Dare doing?”
Trystan’s jaw clenches, but he offers me a shrug. “Patched up as much as he can be. For now.”
“That leg needs real medical attention,” Ridge adds as he scrapes a plate off over the trash can. “More than we have here to give him, at any rate. The last thing we need is for infection to set in and make him lose a leg. He’d never forgive us.”
Trystan rolls his eyes. “Because it’s our fault he fucked off to the borders and picked a fight with witches?”
I narrow my eyes in his direction, irritation prickling my skin. Maybe it doesn’t say anything good about me that I still have an urge to protect Dare, even now. But I do. I care about him, no matter how he feels about me.
“He came back to us,” I point out. “He could have gone to any of the packs for assistance, but he didn’t. He came here. Because he trusts… you.” I almost say because he trusts us, but I stop myself.
