Half formed thoughts bombard the inside of my skull. His muscles flex and bunch.
He leaps.
I turn and his head collides with the wall where I’d been.
Pulling forward on my hands and knees, I skid into the kitchen, frantic. His back legs knock against the cleaver and when it slides out of reach this time, there’s no getting it back.
My frantic gaze spans the counter.
What do I grab?
How do I protect myself when this is my fault?
His growl echoes off the cabinets and the distinctive click of his claws on the linoleum lights my blood like a lightning strike.
The stove.
The skillet.
I throw myself forward and grab the handle of the cast iron pan as Grayson jumps.
I turn in the same beat. Swing the pan.
I’m sorry.
It connects with the side of his head and Grayson falls, hitting the floor. Teeth stained with blood, my blood, he blinks at me.
His snarl reverberates through me. I wing the pan again, a Rapunzel wannabe and nowhere near as brave as she is.
Hesitation makes the hit unstable. I don’t want to hurt him.
His wolf knows it. They sense weakness and understand exactly how to capitalize on it to bring down their catch.
My third hit is stronger.
Grayson crumples. This time when his eyes shut, they stay closed, and I stare at him, breathing like a bellows.
Silence stretches more awful than the roar of our attacker. I count the seconds, making it all the way to twenty-five, and Grayson hasn’t moved.
He isn’t breathing.
“Oh my god.” I won’t release the pan. “Oh my god, I killed him. I killed him! Grayson, no.”
A sob stretches my chest. I grip the pan tight enough to lose feeling in my fingers and when I’ve counted to sixty, I haven’t moved any closer to the body.
“What do I do?” I blink past the burn.
Panic isn’t an option yet but it’s close enough to knock on my heart. I should check for a pulse. Not like it matters.
“You killed him. Checking for a pulse won’t change what already happened,” I snap.
Black fur seeps back into his skin, melting into the curves and hard angles of him. His jaw shortens before bones crack back into an all-too familiar human shape. His handsome face, somehow more devastating and heartbreaking in death. His black lashes stretch over unmoving cheeks.
The man who hadn’t had a chance to live yet.
“Are you definitely dead?”
My voice cracks. I shouldn’t have hit him so hard. I should have done a lot of things differently tonight and maybe we wouldn’t be in this situation in the first place.