Breathe.” I squeezed my eyes shut, but that was worse: Jimmy Tyler’s face leered behind my eyelids, like an image projected on a movie screen.
“Should I go after Tess?”
I wanted to answer, to tel him no, but the word wouldn’t come out.
Strong hands cupped my face. “Mac, open your eyes.” Kyle’s voice was calm but insistent. Almost commanding. “Mackenzie . ”
I opened my eyes. “You’re having a panic attack. You’re okay.
Take a deep breath.”
I shook my head. How could I breathe when there wasn’t any air in the room?
Kyle leaned forward until al I could see were his eyes. Brown and warm and bottomless. “You can do it, Mackenzie,” he said and warm and bottomless. “You can do it, Mackenzie,” he said firmly. “Just one deep breath.”
My eyes watered and Kyle’s face splintered, like I was looking at him through a broken lens.
Mackenzie . He never caled me that.
I sucked in a breath and let it out. Then another.
Kyle lowered his hands. Once I stopped shaking, he reached for the paper cup and handed it to me.
A bit of water spiled onto his hand as his fingertips brushed mine. “Sorry,” I mumbled and took a sip.
He stepped away and crossed his arms. “For what?”
“Faling to pieces.” It was hard to look at him.
“For being human, you mean.” There was a strange hitch in Kyle’s voice. He smiled but it was obviously forced. “Don’t apologize for that. Otherwise, I’l have to start apologizing for being . . . you know . . . not.”
Panic tugged at me again, but I squashed it down. I could deal with this. I was always saying that not al werewolves were bad, that LS shouldn’t be some sort of black mark. But saying that—
even believing it—didn’t mean I wanted Kyle to be infected. “Tel me it’s not true.”
He sighed. “Fine. It’s not true.”
He looked normal. Perfectly normal. He was wearing the Eliott Smith T-shirt I’d bought him at a thrift store, and his dark hair was wavy—the way it got when he didn’t dry it after a shower. The expression on his face was exasperation with a tinge of bemusement—his mom caled it his “Mac” look. And yet . . .
“Are you lying?”
“Are you lying?”
He roled his eyes. “Of course I’m lying.”
“Not cool,” I muttered.
Kyle shrugged. “I didn’t want you to start hyperventilating again.” His hair fel over his eyes and he brushed it aside. “I figured annoying you was safer than admitting anything.” He was joking, but there was something dark and worried in the way he watched me.
I shifted on the bed, closer to the edge, and he stepped away, even put his hands behind his back. Almost as though . . .
Oh. Oh!
The realization hit me: Kyle thought I was scared of him.
Was I? It was normal to be scared of werewolves—even people in RfW admitted sometimes being afraid—but this was Kyle .
I puled back the thin hospital blankets and swung my legs over the side of the bed. I looked down. Great. Hospital chic. At least I had shaved my legs yesterday morning.
“What are you doing?”
“Nothing.” I stood, testing my balance. A little wobbly, but not too bad. I tugged on the hospital gown, trying to preserve a little dignity and modesty.
For a split second, I could have sworn Kyle checked out my legs.
I took a step forward and he backed into the wal. “Mac . . .”
His voice came out high and uneasy, and I flashed back to what Kyle had been like when we first met: a gangly mess of elbows and knees with a voice that hadn’t broken.
“Shhh,” I said. “I’m testing something.”
Kyle frowned. “Testing what?”
“Myself.” I took a deep breath as three years of memories rushed through my head and strengthened my resolve.
There was a draft from the hal and I realy wished I had pants.
Or at least shoes.
I shivered and Kyle, thinking I was reacting to him, started to move away. I reached out and touched his chin with two fingers, turning his head so that he was looking at me.
“Should I go after Tess?”
I wanted to answer, to tel him no, but the word wouldn’t come out.
Strong hands cupped my face. “Mac, open your eyes.” Kyle’s voice was calm but insistent. Almost commanding. “Mackenzie . ”
I opened my eyes. “You’re having a panic attack. You’re okay.
Take a deep breath.”
I shook my head. How could I breathe when there wasn’t any air in the room?
Kyle leaned forward until al I could see were his eyes. Brown and warm and bottomless. “You can do it, Mackenzie,” he said and warm and bottomless. “You can do it, Mackenzie,” he said firmly. “Just one deep breath.”
My eyes watered and Kyle’s face splintered, like I was looking at him through a broken lens.
Mackenzie . He never caled me that.
I sucked in a breath and let it out. Then another.
Kyle lowered his hands. Once I stopped shaking, he reached for the paper cup and handed it to me.
A bit of water spiled onto his hand as his fingertips brushed mine. “Sorry,” I mumbled and took a sip.
He stepped away and crossed his arms. “For what?”
“Faling to pieces.” It was hard to look at him.
“For being human, you mean.” There was a strange hitch in Kyle’s voice. He smiled but it was obviously forced. “Don’t apologize for that. Otherwise, I’l have to start apologizing for being . . . you know . . . not.”
Panic tugged at me again, but I squashed it down. I could deal with this. I was always saying that not al werewolves were bad, that LS shouldn’t be some sort of black mark. But saying that—
even believing it—didn’t mean I wanted Kyle to be infected. “Tel me it’s not true.”
He sighed. “Fine. It’s not true.”
He looked normal. Perfectly normal. He was wearing the Eliott Smith T-shirt I’d bought him at a thrift store, and his dark hair was wavy—the way it got when he didn’t dry it after a shower. The expression on his face was exasperation with a tinge of bemusement—his mom caled it his “Mac” look. And yet . . .
“Are you lying?”
“Are you lying?”
He roled his eyes. “Of course I’m lying.”
“Not cool,” I muttered.
Kyle shrugged. “I didn’t want you to start hyperventilating again.” His hair fel over his eyes and he brushed it aside. “I figured annoying you was safer than admitting anything.” He was joking, but there was something dark and worried in the way he watched me.
I shifted on the bed, closer to the edge, and he stepped away, even put his hands behind his back. Almost as though . . .
Oh. Oh!
The realization hit me: Kyle thought I was scared of him.
Was I? It was normal to be scared of werewolves—even people in RfW admitted sometimes being afraid—but this was Kyle .
I puled back the thin hospital blankets and swung my legs over the side of the bed. I looked down. Great. Hospital chic. At least I had shaved my legs yesterday morning.
“What are you doing?”
“Nothing.” I stood, testing my balance. A little wobbly, but not too bad. I tugged on the hospital gown, trying to preserve a little dignity and modesty.
For a split second, I could have sworn Kyle checked out my legs.
I took a step forward and he backed into the wal. “Mac . . .”
His voice came out high and uneasy, and I flashed back to what Kyle had been like when we first met: a gangly mess of elbows and knees with a voice that hadn’t broken.
“Shhh,” I said. “I’m testing something.”
Kyle frowned. “Testing what?”
“Myself.” I took a deep breath as three years of memories rushed through my head and strengthened my resolve.
There was a draft from the hal and I realy wished I had pants.
Or at least shoes.
I shivered and Kyle, thinking I was reacting to him, started to move away. I reached out and touched his chin with two fingers, turning his head so that he was looking at me.
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