Hours ago, I’d been trapped in a vampire dungeon.
Now I’d trapped myself in this hell.
I shake my free hand to ease the numb sensation then clear the tears away.
On my knees, I scoot closer with my pan at the ready, searching for movement where there’s none.
“Grayson, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
My low moan resembles the wind outside, rattling around the corners of the house. I drag my fingers across his jaw and cheekbone, down to the side of his neck searching for a pulse.
Then jump backward when his chest gives a single jerk upward. I leap out of my skin before sniffing, forcing my hand out to rest against the side of his neck.
After a few swipes to find the right spot. A pulse. Thready and thin but there.
“Alive. Oh, thank goodness. You’re alive! It’s okay.”
Like my apologies do anything.
A sour sensation of guilt gnaws my insides. An unconscious human is better than an unconscious werewolf but this one happens to have powerfully muscled legs and scars around a bite mark that has never fully healed.
I can’t look away.
Stop staring.
I’ve got a better chance of growing a beard than looking away. My attention snags on his shoulder and the scar, the shredded and knitted skin from the bite, and up to his earlobe.
Earlobes are safe.
“Okay,” I say to myself. Desperate for the sound of another human voice. “Okay, so now we have to figure out what to do with you. And I have to decide whether the shame is worse, or the worry that you’ll wake up and attack again.”
There’s a huge chance he’ll come to when I’m moving him. Wolves are powerful. Our healing abilities are quick enough to make short work of any concussion I might have given him.Mental fingers crossed.
The tears in my arm tweak when I move and the second I tune into the pain, I flinch. Blood coats my arm and pools on the floor between us.
“I’ll do this quickly,” I mutter.
Then I’ll have to find something to stop my bleeding until my system catches up. But days in the dungeon aren’t helping me.
Trembling, I maneuver Grayson onto his back, carefully avoiding looking south. He flops like a ragdoll until I hook my good arm beneath his shoulder. My ruined forearm protests and I push the pain aside.
I drag Grayson toward the open door to the bedroom on our left.
It creaks when I push it wider.
A red and blue comforter rests in origami folds at the end of a bed large enough to accommodate him. Two short side tables anchor the bed beneath a window and a dresser clear of dust faces the bed.
“Sorry to whoever uses this cabin, but thank you.”
Puffing, I get Grayson over the threshold and bend at the knees, shifting underneath him to get him onto the bed. Another low moan rumbles through him.
“I’m sorry.”
I leave him with the apology and scurry out of the room, pulling the door shut behind me. And with another breath, I shove a chair from the kitchen table underneath the knob to keep him inside.
Just in case he goes crazy again.
Adrenaline slowly leaks from me, a wave receding from shore. Exhaustion takes its place and I sag, clutching my arm against my chest, more blood seeping into my shirt.