Wild Side (Dark Side Series: Book 2)

Fourteen

Igor's disheveled little body was trying to suffocate me when I woke up after a long night of ineffective painkillers and Caelan swearing I was getting better ("Look right there, that burn is nearly second degree!"). He was right, of course, I did heal, but regrowing flesh, skin and nerve endings hurt like there was no tomorrow.  If this hurt like hell, I couldn't begin to imagine what werewolves underwent with each shift. When my pain had dulled and the burnt flesh had finally flaked away, I curled into an exhausted ball on the sheets and let the waves of uneasy sleep wash over me.

Early afternoon sunlight peaked through the curtains and onto my face, where the Maine Coon had taken to wrapping herself snugly around my head. Sensing my groans, she bumped her head against my nose and stretched out her paws across my neck. Caelan had gone in and out of the room a few times since I'd felt well enough to try and rest. He was gone as I abandoned the warmth of the sheets and dragged myself down the hall to a decrepit little bathroom with a minuscule shower. Knowing what faced me in the mirror, I locked the door and walked straight on past my reflection without sneaking a peek.

I didn't want to be that tired, aching girl on the run anymore. There wasn't much I understood since the rushing whirlwind of events leading up to my arrival in the ill-kept upstairs floor of a funeral parlor. I aimed to change that, beginning with whatever ritual Rowtag had up his moth-bitten sleeves.

The water poured down in a steamy, stuttered bursts. I washed the grim from my body, then hauled my clothes behind the shower curtain to do the same, using coconut shampoo to get out, well, hardly any of the tarry bloody mess. The shirt had to go, but there was a chance to salvage the jeans, at least for now. It wasn't like I had any spares at the moment, and I wasn't going to face the winter afternoon clad in a button-down from Caelan and nothing else.

There I stood, naked and scrubbing the shirt, when the doorknob jiggled. I froze. Slowly the door I'd locked creaked open. Cold air cut through the steam.

"Hello?" I called on instinct, gathering the soaked fabric against my chest.

No answer.

I shut the water off and cautiously called again. Over the drip of the shower head there was only the faint squeal of a finger rubbing the mirror. The sound deepened to a screechy pitch, like claws coursing over the fogged pane.

Swallowing hard, I kept silent. There wasn't a point in screaming. My newly healed fingertips stretched forward to pull back the curtain on a bad feeling.

The points of two large, grey ears loomed over the top. The bathroom light flickered, illuminating the hulking shadow of muscular arms, wide shoulders and a short, bristly tail. The impression of a pointed snout pressed against the curtain. It sniffed once, twice.

By now I'd backed myself into a corner of wet tile, armed with a handful of clothes and a bottle of shampoo.

Thick, yellowed nails curled around the top of the rod. The metal buckled beneath its grip. in the narrow bathroom there wasn't anywhere to run or hide. I couldn't even spray it with the damn showerhead because it was fixed to the wall.

A hoarse, rumbling laugh, half-human, half wolf, drowned out the drip-drip of the draining water. The nails tore into the top of the curtain, and then the werewolf wrenched it to the floor. It barreled forward, jaws swung open. I shoved the shampoo bottle in its waiting fangs, tossed the clothes over its eyes and tried to shoulder my way past.

Yellowed nails raked fire across my stomach. Blinded, it swatted me onto the warm tile, shook off the clothes with a snarl and hunched over me, trapping me in place with a firm hand against my throat. But the pressure against that soft vulnerable place never constricted.