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Despite my attempts to assuage her concerns, I can sense her lingering apprehension. She nibbles on her lip, lost in contemplation of the unknown. After a moment of deliberation, she nods softly and whispers, “Okay.”
I rise to my feet, effortlessly lifting her into my arms, and carry her through the dimly lit house, our footsteps echoing in the silence. As we enter the sanctuary of my bathroom, the comforting warmth of the cascading water surrounds us, washing away the remains of the violence that marred our afternoon and replacing them with the thrill of being together. Steam envelops the room, creating an intimate atmosphere as we trade languid kisses and tender caresses. There is no rush, no need to possess or control; we are simply content to be in each other’s company.
FANGS AND FEELINGS
CHAPTER TWELVE
Xavier
Mylivingroomstillstands as evidence of the brutal fight that unfolded just last night. The rotten stench of death, the stale blood, and the bitter residue of defeat overpower the room, making it almost unbearable to enter. Torn curtains sway limply while shattered glass litters the floor, reflecting the early morning light that streams in through the broken window.
The furniture that I have spent centuries acquiring—irreplaceable pieces reduced to firewood.
I’ve always enjoyed surrounding myself with beautiful and unique items, but I’m forced to admit that it is all worthless compared to the woman that is sitting beside me on the tattered couch, its cushions ripped open and stuffing spilling out like white feathers.
She is truly the most irreplaceable and valuable thing in my life…
“Hold still, love, and let me look at this,” I command as I take a moment to survey the wounds on Lyra’s arm; the wounds are still raw and angry. The surrounding skin is inflamed, with a fiery redness that radiates heat when I touch it. The ones on her leg mirror the same hue and intensity, refusing to be ignored. Frustration wells up within me, a mix of irritation and regret. If I had given her some of my blood last night instead of getting distracted by the sex and the offering of her blood, she wouldn’t still be suffering from the damage inflicted by the shadow schemer’s claws.
Resolute in my determination, I ignore Lyra’s squirms, my gaze fixed on the deepest laceration on her arm. With gentle prodding, I explore the wound, each touch eliciting a wince of pain from her.
“I would sit still, but it hurts when you touch them, so stop doing it,” she replies and pulls her arm from my grasp.
“You said the wounds would heal.”
“And they will,” she rolls her eyes at me. “It’s just going to take more than a second.”
“It’s been a full night. Your wolf blood should have accelerated the healing process.”
In response, Lyra’s eyes meet mine, an obstinate glimmer shining through her pain. Her body tenses, a subtle shift in posture that betrays a deep-seated resilience.
She lifts her chin, her voice carrying a hint of resignation mixed with a touch of defiance. “You seem to forget that my wolf blood is diluted; I can heal, but it takes longer. It’s not great, but it is what it is.” A moment of vulnerability flickers across her eyes. “I’m kind of sick of finding out about my limitations, like when I bit you, I was so sure I had venom, only to find out that I don’t. It’s disappointing. I felt the same way I felt when I was fourteen. My second eldest brother, Declan, was taunting me, calling me a stray and telling me I didn’t belong with the pack. He said I was just a weak imitation of what a true werewolf should be and that I would always be on the outskirts, watching them from the sidelines because that was my place. I told him to piss off and shoved him. He decided to prove to me how weak I was by breaking my arm and then smugly telling me to heal myself. For normal people, it takes six to eight weeks to recover from a broken arm; for werewolves, it probably takes around an hour; my broken arm took three days. The scratches will be gone by tonight. So stop your fussing.”
The desire to ease her suffering and hasten her healing courses through me. “If I give you some of my blood, they’ll heal instantly,” I suggest, hoping she will see reason in my words.
“I told you it wasn’t necessary.”
Stubbornness radiates from her, a prideful resistance that leaves me exasperated. Deep down, I know her refusal stems from something deeper, an inner struggle tied to her identity as a half-blood. Her touchiness regarding her heritage is not lost on me. As I observe Lyra’s determined stance, a surge of protectiveness engulfs me, intertwining with a smoldering anger that burns deep within. The story of her brother’s callousness and the pain it inflicted on her echoes within me, kindling a fire that seeks retribution. I want to unleash my wrath upon the dirty mongrel with his canine curse and make him pay for the pain he inflicted. The image of his face twisted in fear, his arrogance shattered beneath the weight of my vengeance, consumes my thoughts.
“I will kill your brother for what he has done,” I growl, my voice low and laden with dark intensity. “I will break every bone in his body, peel his stinking hide from his flesh, and leave him to rot in the sun.”
Lyra’s voice cuts through the tempest of my rage, piercing the air with a firmness that demands attention. “No, Xavier, you aren’t going to do a damn thing.”
“Why not?” I retort irritably.
“Because revenge won’t make you feel better, and it won’t heal these scratches any faster.”
“I beg to disagree. The fucking unkempt dog should suffer a thousand deaths for hurting you.”
“My brother’s death will hurt my dad, and I won’t let you do that.”
This bloody loyalty that she holds toward her father compels me to delve deeper. I want to understand the dynamics of her family and the choices her father made. “What did your father do when your brother broke your arm?”
A flicker of hesitation dances across Lyra’s features, a brief moment of contemplation. Her eyes dart away, seeking refuge in the chaos surrounding us. “There wasn’t much he could do. Taking my side over a full-blood member of the pack would have caused a lot of tension and conflict. So, he just made sure I received proper medical attention and tried to keep the peace within the pack.”
I detect a subtle tremor in her words, an unspoken ache that tugs at the corners of her voice. It is a hesitation born of the internal struggle she grapples with, torn between loyalty to her own kin and the raw pain inflicted upon her by those she thought would protect her.
I reach out and palm her cheek, turning her face towards me. “Little wolf, I don’t understand why you continue to defend your father when he has done nothing to deserve it.”
