Blood of the Pride by Sheryl Nantus

we stepped back into my bedroom. The window had been carefully pried open, staying that way thanks to the extremely rusted hinges I had been promising to oil. The bed itself was a bloody mess. The attacker’s nose had bled like a fountain, spurting not only over my sweatshirt but across the four pillows, the light sheet and was probably starting to soak through to the mattress below. Wonderful. I hated shopping for stuff.
    I released Bran and made my way to the old oaken dresser. A quick search of the bottom drawer found another sweat suit, this one a dark green. It had been a present to myself a few months ago when I had spotted it on sale in one of those fancy shops that I dare not frequent without a clear credit card. My arms ached as I carried the small bundle toward the bathroom, trying to force back another wave of nausea as the smell of the blood threatened my stomach again. Right now the rabbit’s foot in the garbage didn’t seem so annoying.
    “Don’t you have anything…more fun?” Bran asked behind me, trying to lighten the mood. “I mean, that’s pretty boring nightwear.”
    I slammed the door, ratcheting the pain behind my eyes up a notch. I twisted the hot water faucet wide open and waited a few minutes then added a trickle of cold, letting the steam fill the small room. The sweatshirt went into the corner with the pants. Next stop for both of them would be the garbage pail. There were some things that couldn’t ever be cleaned. I grabbed a washcloth and swiped a swath free on the mirror before turning around to see the full extent of the damage.
    The full-length mirror on the back of the door revealed a mottled mess of scrapes stretching up one side of my battered body and down the other. My attacker’s nails had only scraped across my left ribs, leaving thin lines that were already beginning to heal, courtesy of Felis blood. Wounds would heal but scars remained.
    I stepped under the hot water, wincing. I couldn’t stop the tears from starting as I ran the sponge over my body, trying to be as gentle as possible but failing miserably. My shoulders were already beginning to stiffen, which meant it was going to be hell to move later on tonight or today, whatever time it was. I added an unholy amount of peppermint-scented body wash to the water pooling around my feet and on the sponge, purging the attacker’s scent from my skin.
    I started rolling thoughts around to distract me from the pain. My unknown assailant had followed me home from the alley. He’d been the one I’d smelled, hidden somewhere nearby and watching me and Bran go through our search.
    He must have thought I was a cop. His nostrils had been clogged with blood, his and a touch of mine, clouding his senses from the start of our fight. He hadn’t made me as Felis until my claws had come out, surprising both of us.
    At least I didn’t have to worry about asking Jess for descriptions of all the tall men in the Pride. I’d seen his face up close and personal. His Felis face, true, but it was as individual as a human’s face when it came to identification.
    I sucked up a mouthful of hot water, gargled with it then spat it into the bathtub. The nausea had finally subsided, leaving now only an empty ache in my stomach. I wasn’t sure if it was a reaction to the fight, my attempt to Change or just the whole situation.
    A burst of cold air shot up from under the shower curtain. I put the sponge back on the small plastic shelf and sighed before putting one hand on the edge of the curtain.
    “Bran, I didn’t hear a thud. I’m fine and I don’t need my back scrubbed.” I took a deep breath and balled my free hand into a fist. It was possible the attacker had returned to finish the job. I stared at my hand, pushing myself to get those claws out again. Nothing. I’d have to do this the old-fashioned way.
    I yanked the curtain back, one arm drawn back and ready to strike.
    Bran stood there, holding a large white fluffy towel he had