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Despite my attempt at not scaring her, she throws a wild, panicked look in my direction and pulls her knees tighter to her chest. The blanket hangs over her face like a cloak, hiding her away but giving her room to keep her eye on us.
“Still the most awake she’s been in days,” Trystan mutters as he draws up to the end of the bed and studies her. Worry hovers behind his turquoise eyes. He snaps his fingers three times, like he’s calling a pup. “Sable! Wake up.”
Archer clasps Trystan’s shoulder, pulling him back. “Don’t be an idiot. You’ll scare her.”
“I’m not trying to scare her!” Trystan grunts, shrugging Archer’s hand away.
Beneath her blanket fort, Sable makes a small, panicked sound as her face disappears entirely beneath the blanket.
“Oh?” Archer jerks his chin to indicate Sable. “Well, you’re doing a real bang-up job of it anyway.”
Trystan doesn’t reply, but he storms away from the bed to go lean by the open door, his brooding gaze on Sable’s shivering form. Guilt lingers in his eyes though. He didn’t mean to scare her. As annoyed as I am at him, I know that. But he’s fucked up by this, just like we all are.
Rational thought is in short supply these days.
I exchange glances with Archer and roll my eyes. I’ve gotten to know them both pretty well during the last couple weeks, and the one constant is Trystan’s need to be in control, to be right, and to be the best. When he’s none of those things, he can throw a tantrum that rivals the youngest wolf cub. Of the three of us, he’s had the hardest time coming to terms with the new situation. We’re all adrift here, and I’m just doing my best to go with the flow. Trystan isn’t a go-with-the-flow kind of guy.
In the silence that lingers after he walks away, Sable resurfaces. Her bright blue eyes are wild as she looks between me and Archer.
Archer moves slowly and carefully, avoiding direct eye contact with her as he rounds the edge of the bed. I follow his lead, giving her a little more space but keeping my movements small so that I don’t scare her. I’ve overseen my fair share of wolf transformations, and even though that’s not exactly what she went through, the situations have startling similarities. Add the normal disorientation to Sable’s ingrained sense of panic, and we’ve got a fucking ticking time bomb on the bed.
One who now has witch magic pulsing inside her. Witch magic she very much does not have control of.
Archer sits at the foot of the bed and peers at her with his head down like a submissive wolf showing the alpha he means no harm. “Sable. You’re going to be okay.”
She shakes her head, staring at him with wide eyes. Her blonde hair, damp with perspiration, is stuck to her forehead and neck.
“Yes. You’re going to be okay,” he repeats soothingly. “You’ve been going through a transformation. You probably ache all over and feel really disoriented. But I promise you’re safe.”
Her pale brows pull together, and she takes a longer, more steadying breath. “T-transformation?”
Archer nods. “You possessed magic you weren’t aware of. Deep inside you. Something unlocked access to that magic, and your body has spent the last three days processing that. But it’s done now. You’re safe and whole.”
“Three days?”
Her voice sounds stronger. She clears her throat as if she can suddenly hear the hoarseness in her own voice, then lets the blanket fall away from her head. It settles on her shoulders, and she looks so small and vulnerable with the quilt wrapped around her that it breaks my fucking heart.
“I know that seems like a long time, but it’s normal,” Archer assures her. “Some shifters take five days or more to transition. You did really well.”
Except she wasn’t transitioning into a wolf, I think, fighting the urge to rub away the knot between my eyebrows.
Until she began to transition, I didn’t even know witches went through something similar. I just assumed they were born with their magic. Instead, her situation has shown me their magic is just as dormant inside them as our wolves. They have to uncover their magic and wait for their witch side to “come out”—just like us shifters waiting for our wolves.
Having proof that the witches aren’t so different from us just pisses me off even more. How can they hate us so much? Hypocritical assholes. But I keep my thoughts to myself. This isn’t really the time or place for that conversation. Sable has nothing to do with our enemies.
“Everything is going to be all right.” Archer gives her a s
mall smile, his eyes soft. “Breathe with me?”
They lock gazes, and Archer exaggerates his movements as he breathes deeply in, then empties his lungs. Sable follows his lead. In and out, each breath chasing away some of her tension. I’ve seen him do this before. He used the same technique during our first couple days at the cabin when Sable had a panic attack on the kitchen floor. It worked miracles then, and it’s doing the same now.
Eventually, her shoulders slump forward, and she relaxes her grip on her knees. The tears stop pouring down her cheeks. She no longer looks like she’s ready to flee at a moment’s notice. Instead, she just looks exhausted and worn down from the transition. The black sigils on her skin fade bit by bit until they’re gone entirely, and she blinks, glancing around the room as if she can see us for the first time.
“You’re here.” She sniffles, then smiles wanly at each of us in turn—even Trystan, who’s still standing by the door. When her focus lands on me, my heart clenches at the sad, tired look on her face. She’s trying to be brave. To be strong.
I want to pull her into my arms and give her some of my strength. Promise her that she is brave, even when she doesn’t feel like it. That she’s one of the toughest fucking people I’ve ever met.
But before I can say a damn thing, her gaze flicks around the room again, taking in the space… and especially, the notable absence in it.
