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His voice is careful. Like he doesn’t want to spook me, or give anything away with his clipped tone. And since I’m inexplicably cut off from my wolf, I can’t use her to get a read on exactly what’s going on
“I… I don’t know. A little woozy. Confused. West… what am I doing here? What areyoudoing here? Where are we?”
He ignores each of my questions. Instead, he simply says, “The woozy feeling will fade. It’s just a side effect of the quicksilver.”
Wait—what?
I’m cut off from my wolf, but it’s not inexplicable anymore.
“Quicksilver? You dosed me with quicksilver?”
“Injected you with it,” he clarifies. “I needed you to be completely out, your scent undetectable, to move you. It was the only thing I could think to do. Wilder told me how to do it.”
Wilder… Quinn’s feral.
The same wolf who used a quicksilver injection to knock her unconscious and keep her docile when a trapped she-wolf would’ve gone for his balls or his throat to wake up and discover she’s been taken captive…
Feeling so… sohuman, all I can do is curl my knees up to my chest. “Move me? Move me where?”
Again, he refuses to answer.
“Don’t worry about that. We can talk about it when you’re feeling better. I didn’t expect you to be up so soon… and you’re just woozy? Everything else is okay?”
Now that he mentions it, the side of my neck itches.
Purposely avoiding his stare, my fingers go right to the spot where I can feel the twinge. It’s on the side of my throat, closer to the point where it meets the curve of my shoulder, but when I go to scratch it, I freeze.
My fingers find a curve of slice bumps. No.Twocurves. One on top, the other on the bottom, a small bite.
It’s slightly raised from my skin, too. Like it’s a scar.
My stomach goes tight.
No.
It’s a mark.
I swivel my head, dipping my gaze, panic rushing through me as I try to get a better look at my neck. I can’t, and when I kick out my legs, ready to run for a mirror if I need to, West moves closer to me.
“Don’t get upset. I can explain everything—”
Don’t get upset? Too late.
I back away from him, desperate to get a better look at my throat. It’s impossible, but I still try. Using my left hand to tug the collar of my nightgown away from my neck, I’m still trying to see what’s there when the light from over my head flashes off of my hand, catching my attention.
I instantly freeze. Except for the fingers on my hand, that is.
They’re trembling as I move them in front of my face.
There, on the ring finger on my left hand, is a simple golden band that wasn’t there before.
I squeak.
West takes a step toward me. “Tell me, Helene, do you like my ring?”
He marked me with his teeth. That has to be what that scar on my throat is. But even knowing that he did that while I was asleep—that he injected me with quicksilver to make sure Istayedasleep—is nothing compared to understanding that Weston Reed slipped a golden band on my finger.
“Why did you do this? What am I wearing this ring?”
