Chapter 18: Aftermath

The scent of his blood was a sharp, coppery thread in the air, tying the violence of the clearing directly to the quiet tension of his chambers. It was all over him, drying in dark streaks on his skin, but one cut on his arm, just below his shoulder, still welled up with fresh, vivid red.

We had ridden back in a silence even heavier than the one we went out in. The memory of his kiss was a brand on my mouth, a phantom pressure I could still feel. The raw power of his shift, the terrifying beauty of his fight, it all played behind my eyes on a relentless loop. But now, in the stark stone of his room, with the door closed against the world, the reality was just him, shirtless and bleeding, and me, holding a clean cloth and a bowl of water.

“Sit,” I said, my voice surprisingly steady.

He watched me, his eyes guarded, but he sat on the edge of his large wooden bed. The frame creaked under his weight. I moved to stand beside him, the space between us humming with unspent energy. I could feel the heat coming off his body, a furnace stoked by battle and something else, something that had been simmering between us for weeks.

I dipped the cloth in the water. “This will sting.”

He didn’t flinch. “Just do it.”

I pressed the cloth to the cut. It was a clean slice, not too deep, but long. His skin was warm and solid under my fingers. I worked carefully, cleaning away the grime and blood. My knuckles brushed against the hard curve of his bicep. A jolt, sharp and electric, shot up my arm. I heard his breath catch, a quick, harsh intake.

My own breathing shallowed. The room felt too small, the air too thick. I was hyper-aware of every detail: the flex of muscle in his jaw as he clenched it, the dark sweep of his lashes against his cheek, the way his broad chest rose and fell with each measured breath. My fingers trembled slightly as I reached for the salve Eira had given me.

I smoothed the cool gel over the wound. The act was intimate, my touch gentle against his brutal strength. My thumb stroked over the uninjured skin beside the cut, an unconscious, soothing motion. His arm tensed under my hand. The chemistry between us was a live wire, sparking and dangerous, and I was holding both ends.

I looked up from my work and found his eyes already on me. The blue was dark, intense, full of a heat that had nothing to do with the fight and everything to do with the woman standing between his knees. His gaze dropped to my mouth, and my lips parted as if he had already claimed them.

My hand stilled on his arm. The air crackled. He was going to kiss me again. I could feel it, the pull as undeniable as gravity. I leaned in a fraction of an inch, my body swaying towards his of its own volition.

Then, he moved. It was not toward me, but away. He stood up so abruptly I stumbled back a step. He turned his back to me, running a hand through his disheveled hair.

“That’s enough,” he said, his voice rough, like gravel.

The rejection was a physical blow. The heat that had been coiling in my belly turned to ice. “I wasn’t finished.”

“I said enough.” He turned around, and the look on his face was a mask of cold control, but his eyes still burned. “The attack changes nothing, Anika. Do not mistake a moment of instinct for something it is not.”

The words were deliberately cruel, designed to put distance between us. They worked. “Instinct?” I echoed, my voice cold.

“You were in danger. I reacted. Then I took a kiss, that is all.” He crossed his arms over his chest, his posture rigid. “You are still my property, a prisoner of this pack. Remember your place.”

The whiplash from the searing intimacy of moments ago to this cold dismissal was too much. The careful wall I had built around my heart, the one his touch had been steadily eroding, cracked open, and all the old bitterness came pouring out.

“My place?” I took a step toward him, my hands curling into fists at my sides. “You want to talk about my place? You, who dragged me here from the ashes of my home?”

His face went utterly still. “Anika.”

“No,” I spat, the fury and grief I had suppressed for weeks finally breaking free. “You don’t get to silence me, you saved my life only to make me a slave. You kiss me like I am everything and then tell me I am nothing. You are a contradiction, Garrick. A monster who plays at being a man.”

I saw a muscle leap in his jaw. A flicker of something pained and furious in his eyes. “You know nothing.”

“I know everything! You took my freedom, now you have the audacity to want me? To look at me with that hunger in your eyes? You are a liar, to me and to yourself.”

I was breathing heavily, tears of rage and hurt stinging my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. I had thrown the truth between us like a weapon, and it lay there now, sharp and bleeding, just like the cut on his arm.

The cold mask on his face shattered. He closed the distance between us in two long strides, his hands coming up to grip my shoulders. His touch was not gentle. It was possessive and desperate.

“Do you think I don’t know that?” he growled, his face inches from mine. His eyes were wild, tormented. “You are a living reminder of my worst sin, Anika. And yet, I cannot stay away from you. You are a fire in my blood, and I am tired of fighting the burn.”

His confession hung in the air, raw and shocking. He wasn’t denying it. He was admitting to everything, and the pain in his voice was as real as the anger in mine.

He shook me, just once, a small, frustrated gesture. “So yes, I am a liar. I am a monster, I am the man who took everything from you. And I am still the man who wants you more than his next breath. What will you do with that truth?”

He stared at me, his chest heaving, his grip tight on my shoulders, waiting for my answer. The war was no longer between us, but within him, and he had just dragged me onto the battlefield. The heat was back, fiercer than ever, mingled now with a devastating, heartbreaking understanding.

He was broken, and he was offering me all the sharp, shattered pieces.