Chapter Sixty-Eight: Simon's POV
The door opened, she walked in, eyes immediately falling on my side. Blood was flowing out, without fur and muscle covering it, bleeding more heavily.
Her face went white. A moment passed, maybe two. Long enough for me to realize that the second she walked in I should have made her leave, I should have locked the door, I should have called Clara instead of letting her stand here, close enough her breathing disturbed the air between us.
"Simon—"
"I'm fine." I cut her off.
Though obviously a lie. I turned toward the bathroom, where Clara had left medical supplies.
Carol followed. Of course she would follow.
Even when she was angry with me, even when keeping distance would be wiser, she never learned to walk away when I was hurt.
Her hand grabbed my arm.
I stopped, because the other option was to shake her off, and shaking off Carol was something I'd wanted to do for the past year but never managed.
She grabbed the medical kit, movements quick and practiced, as if she'd done this hundreds of times when it was really only a dozen.
I forced myself to turn and walk toward the chair by the window.
My legs barely obeyed, each step a battle between Alpha pride forcing me upright and silver-damaged muscles wanting to collapse.
By the time I reached the chair, my breathing was heavier than normal.
I would never let anyone else see me like this.
But Carol was different. She'd been different for so long I didn't want to admit it myself.
I sank into the chair, back against leather, head resting on the headrest.
Closed my eyes for a second, and when I opened them again, she still stood there, medical kit in hand.
"Let me help," she said softly.
The look in her eyes—worry, determination, and something I couldn't name—made it impossible to refuse.
She set the medical supplies on the small table, kneeling before me with composed grace.
When she saw that wound running diagonally from chest to waist.
She drew in a breath, hand suspended in mid-air, as if afraid to touch, afraid of hurting me.
"You still have silver poison in your body," she said.
"The wound hasn't healed. The toxin is still wreaking havoc in your lymphatic system, still breaking down your regenerative cells, still—"
She paused, fingers clenching on her thigh, then forcing herself to release. "You need to be careful. This could kill you."
I said nothing.
What was there to say? That she was right?
That I knew the risks of accepting the challenge, knew Grey would target the wound, knew each movement would tear it wider, let more blood spill on the training ground dirt?
I knew all that.
But what I couldn't stand more was being seen as weak.
I'd rather take a bullet every day than show any vulnerability before the pack.
She took a deep breath, then leaned forward to begin bandaging me.
Then, a scent rushed over me.
Wild berries and rain-soaked forest, summer thunderstorms and sweet earth.
All her scent, torturing me for eight years.
It filled my lungs and bloodstream, the side pain disappeared, the exhaustion disappeared.
Only her scent, only her right in front of me.
My Mate within reach, and I sat here doing nothing, like a fool.
"This isn't perfume." Knox roared in my head, voice urgent and rough.
"This is her. This is her getting close to you, worrying about you, letting her guard down..." He let out a low growl. "Mate is here. If you don't do something, I swear I'll seize control and do it myself."
I gripped the armrest, leather squeaking under my palms, finally able to shift attention from the feeling of her breath sweeping my skin.
She was too close.
Close enough I could see the stray hairs by her temple, see the scar on her collarbone from training—left when she fell during practice and refused to let Marcus carry her to Clara.
My control was slipping.
Her hand pressed on my ribs, right where the wound was worst.
That small point of contact sent electricity racing down my spine.
I clenched my jaw and drew a breath, and she froze.
Her hand pressed on my ribs, right above where the tear was worst, that tiny contact point sending electricity running along my spine. I drew a breath through clenched teeth, and the sound made her freeze.
"Sorry." She said quickly, voice softening, as if forgetting I was Alpha, only remembering I was the person who saved her from the casino eight years ago. "I'll be gentler. Just don't move, okay?"
Her words became blurred background noise.
Because Knox was roaring. This time too violently, and my fingers couldn't help but close around her wrist.
She looked up at me. Those amber eyes, reminding me of autumn leaves and honey, reminding me of all the gold before I knew gold could burn hotter than fire.
"Simon?" She asked uncertainly. "Are you... does it hurt too much? Should I call Clara? I can—"
The wound began throbbing violently again, but I only felt her pulse at her wrist, beating fast.
Her heart was accelerating. Her breathing was quickening, her scent intensifying.
Knox stirred in my chest, satisfied yet restless. I knew he wouldn't wait much longer.
I should release her wrist. I should pull away before this went beyond repair.
I remembered my promise to Osmon—protect his daughter.
Remembered how complicated everything would become if I followed Knox's impulses.
But the silver poison had destroyed my reason, and Carol knelt before me, eyes full of worry.
Her scent surrounded me, rich and intoxicating.
Knox was right. She was my Mate. Denying it was like denying I needed air.
"I'm fine." I forced out, voice rougher than expected. "Just hurry."
She nodded slowly, swallowed, then gently pulled her wrist from my hand and turned back to tend the wound.
But I could see her hands trembling slightly, could see the flush in her cheeks, could smell the change in her scent.
She wasn't unaffected by what just passed between us either.
Good. Let her taste this too. Let her not understand either why her heart raced, breath quickened, why her body reacted this way to my touch.
She worked in silence.
Cleaning, applying medicine, wrapping gauze in tight circles.
My gaze fell on her face, watching how she frowned in concentration, watching her bite her lip when she had to press deeper, watching the brief relief that crossed her face after each completed wrap.
But her body leaned slightly toward me, and every time our eyes met, her scent became warmer, richer.
"Almost done," she murmured. "You rest well, no need to worry about—"
She pressed too hard on a particularly sensitive spot. Pain shot up suddenly.
I instinctively grabbed her wrist again.
This time, I didn't just hold her. I pulled, tugging her forward.
She lost balance and had to brace her other hand on my chair's armrest.
In an instant, she was close enough I could feel the warmth radiating from her skin, close enough her face was only inches from mine. There was no more room between us to hide.
Her eyes widened in surprise, Knox roared triumph in my mind, telling me she knew what was about to happen and she wasn't fleeing as she should.
"Mr. Simon." She spoke my name, like a plea, like an invitation.
I couldn't tell which Knox preferred more, because both were equally dangerous, equally tempting.
"What are you doing... you need to let me finish bandaging, you..."
She didn't pull away. That's what undid me.
If she retreated, if she showed fear, if she gave me any signal this wasn't what she wanted, even if it killed me, I would let her go.
But she didn't.
She just looked at me with those golden eyes that had tormented me for years, as if maybe she felt the same pull I did and had been fighting it just as hard.
Knox seized my body. I stopped thinking, only knowing she belonged to me.
My hand slid to the back of her neck, fingers threading into her hair, cupping her nape, that declaration every wolf recognized, the first step in bonding.
Telling anyone who could smell it—she was mine.