The rabbit watches me.
I watch the rabbit.
And the blood drips.
Chapter 6
Briar
He’s watching the door when I come back, and I stop in the doorway. I went out to settle myself, and now that I’m looking at the room, I’m unsettled all over again. He’s strapped in the chair, afternoon light through the window dappling his chest, his arms, the first cut already scabbing over on his forearm. The rabbit on the floor between us where I left it.
He’s still naked. I knew that.
Knowing it and walking back into it are two different things.
I cross to the table. Pick up the knife. Don’t look at him while I do it.
“Second one?” he says.
“Yes.”
He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t brace. His eyes follow me the way they’ve followed me all morning. That’s not unusual, considering the circumstances, but there’s an intensity to it that makes my skin feel too tight.
I pull my chair close and sit. Take his right arm — the unmarked one — and turn it forearm up across the chair arm. I’m determined to ignore the warmth of his skin and the alpha aura rolling off of him. But my wolf tips toward the heat of him the way she’s been tipping toward his scent all morning, a slow, persistent lean that I’ve been correcting since I walked back through the door.
Work.
I make the cut. Same depth, same length. He doesn’t flinch. But his free hand grips the chair arm, the tendons standing hard, and holds it there longer than the pain alone would keep it.
I sit back and watch the blood come.
“You’re going to tell me something,” he says.
“Maybe.”
He waits.
“Ruthie Hartwell,” I say. “Twelve years old when she went in. Fourteen when she came out. She made things from what she found in there… turned fabric scraps into jewelry.” I pause. “Because they were something she could own. And every teenage girl wants to be pretty.”
He’s very still.
I stand. Step back. I try to convince myself that it’s to give him time to think. But the reality is that I’m uncomfortable being so close to him. I turn away to steady my breath. When I turn back, he’s still watching me. His eyes are darker than chocolate, and every so often, there’s a flash of gold in their depths that tells me that his wolf is close.
Doesn’t scare me. I’ve faced worse.
Have you?
Those eyes stay on me as I reach for his arm for the third cut. His breath brushes over my hair.
“Those families you sent through? They separated them when they arrived. The little ones screamed the loudest, but eventuallythat stopped.” I watch as the blade sinks in and the flesh parts beneath it, then look up and meet his eyes. “They gave them wrist tags. Like livestock. With a number. Like Sparrow, who was 47. And Arden, who was 219.”
He doesn’t speak. But I watch his face while I talk, and the muscles in his jaw work when I mention the children. Not performance. He can’t help it.
I make another cut.
His arm stays still under my hands. I finish and hold the arm steady while the blood comes, and I’m watching his face, and he’s not looking at me. He’s looking at the rabbit.
I move my hands from his arm.