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But I would still rather Wilde be the one sitting in that chair, filling me in on what I missed. I don’t know how I know it, and maybe I’m only kidding myself, but I feel like he would at least be gentle about it. A little considerate, even. Because, somehow, he would know the difference it would make. And he would care.
Who am I kidding? It must be the aftereffect of whatever the healers gave me. It’s messing with my brain.
“I guess an injury from a witch is different from other sorts of injuries,” I muse.
“That’s right. You didn’t do any of the training with the rest of the pack when we were in your territory, did you?”
“I was sort of busy with other things.”
“To put it bluntly, a witch can fuck a wolf up like few things can. Because it isn’t only a matter of, say, blunt force trauma. We can get over that—as you know,” he adds with a smirk.
My wolf stirs in my chest, and once again, I’m reminded of how much better it is that he rejected me. Only he would make a snide little joke about the beating I took before I first shifted. He saw it for himself, the terrible shape I was in. Even now, I remember what it felt like to choke on my blood after being broken up inside by Hannah’s and Dexter’s kicks and punches. Who jokes about that? Just because I survived doesn’t make it funny.
“But when a witch injures a wolf, she’s normally using her magic,” he continues. “Sometimes, it’s as simple as a burst of energy that’s like being slammed into by an express train. That was what happened to Dad during the invasion. One of them threw one of those energy blasts at him, and it sent him flying.”
He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “But sometimes, there is darker magic. A friend of mine and Wilde’s died while we were with your pack. Half his face was gone, burned away like that.” He snaps his fingers before sighing.
“I’m sorry about that,” I whisper, and I am, but mostly because I can’t help imagining Wilde going through something like what he just described.
“Again, a simple burn, we could recover from. But a burn brought on by magic? A totally different story. Sometimes, the healers simply can’t counteract the spell.”
“I guess I got lucky.”
“I guess you did.” He reaches out to pat my hand. The simplest gesture in the world, totally innocent, and I can’t normally use that word when talking about him. But for once, he seems like one person trying to comfort another in even the briefest, simplest way.
And my stomach turns. Reflex makes me want to recoil, but I don’t want to be rude. I force myself to stay still. It’s like torture, but I somehow manage it.
“You get some more rest. I’ve got to go check in with Dad. I know he’ll be happy to hear you’re awake.”
“Please, tell him I said thank you for going to all this trouble.”
“It’s no trouble.” I don’t believe him. He’s trying to come off like his usual carefree, spoiled prince self. It’s not ringing true, though. There is trouble. He just doesn’t want to tell me about it.
It’s a relief to be left alone, though, that much is for sure. If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the years, it’s how exhausting it can be to put on a happy face when I feel anything but happy. Forcing myself to keep from showing how I feel inside. And I’m already exhausted enough.
But I don’t want to lie here anymore. I’ve been here long enough, and my body has gone stiff. I’m about to be bored to death pretty soon, too—there are no more options for entertainment in this infirmary than there were down in the cell.
All I can do is think, and one thought won’t leave me alone. It insists on plaguing me, even when I don’t know if I have the energy to figure it out.
At some point, my fated bond with Forrest went away.
It’s a relief. One less thing to worry about. I only wish I knew what changed things. Is it the magic that almost killed me? Was there something else on that arrow that broke our connection? The thought makes me snicker to myself. Maybe I should thank the witch, whoever she was. Only now do I truly understand the strain I’ve been under now that it’s essentially over.
The new problem: instead of Forrest, I want Wilde. Not in that mindless, primal, instinctive way. My wolf isn’t begging me to get out of bed and find him immediately. But I do want to find him. Me, myself, not my wolf. I want to see him. I want to talk to him. I want to thank him for standing by my side once he found me during the fight. I want to tell him it wasn’t his fault that I got hit—and that I’m glad he wasn’t hit, instead.
