Then comes, “…Mandi?”
Okay. Hell, alright. What’s the pan?
The knob gives another ominous rattle and my heartrate spikes like a punted football.
“Mandi, what’s going on? Why am I naked and locked in a bedroom?”
It might be the wood warping his voice but he sounds pissed and I’m not taking any chances. Shaking, I grab the pan from the floor of the kitchen and hold it in front of me, poised to strike.
The door shakes and the hinges give a protesting squeal at the pressure.
Rather than run, I hold my ground, frying pan gripped tight and galvanized for the moment he opens the door and attacks.
I try to speak and my throat closes again, any safety or relief from the previous moment gone. I hadn’t clawed my way this far just to go down now. Everything that has tried to break me was wrong. I don’t break.
Chapter
Six
I’d promised I’d do whatever I could to fix this for him. If I didn’t die first.
I’d made the promise the night I found him and I might not be able to do much, but I could keep my word.
I swallow again, the rock lodged in my throat grating, the door holding firm despite the way Grayson shakes it like a blistering tornado.
Finally, I find my voice and force it past the obstruction. “Grayson, it’s okay. Go back to bed. Rest. You need to let your body recover.”
And please don’t shift again.
Instead of listening, he busts the door open, the chair flying across the floor and hitting the couch. It topples on its side.
Grayson, fully human, stands in the doorway framed by shadows. He grips the doorframe to stay upright and his gaze sharpens, landing on me. Through me. He’s got a sheet wrapped around his lower half and tied at his waist where the claw marks from the earlier attack are slowly knitting.
The cast iron pan trembles in my weak grip but I’m still standing, still watching. Marking his movements.
His gaze lands on mine and holds steady even when he goes down, fingers curling against the wood, helpless.
He shakes his head, breaking eye contact. And without looking up at me again, says, “What’s going on? My head hurts.”
“How do you feel besides the migraine?” I hazard.
A bitter laugh falls loose. “Bad. Worse than ever.”
“What’s the last thing you remember?”
“The beast at the window trying to break in.”
If he’s really moon-mad, then wouldn’t the symptoms have shown by now? He’s already been through his first change, all five minutes of it. Or a whopping ten if I’m feeling generous.
I weigh the options in the back of my mind.
If he’s mad, I’ll have to kill him for real.
If he’s not…we’ll deal with this together. I only know that once we’re out of this, I’ll be keeping a weapon on me constantly and learning how to wield it effectively.
No more surprises.
No more frying pans.