Chapter One
She knew something was wrong before she’d even worked her
way down his body to the tented place beneath the sheet. She could tell by his
face—all taut with tension—and the way he was holding himself. Usually he
watched her run the soapy cloth over his chest and shoulders and…other parts of
him, but this time he’d turned his gaze away, and his shoulders seemed stiff.
It didn’t take her long to figure out what he was doing.
He’d pinched the sheet in with both of his arms so she couldn’t get beneath it.
It was stupid of him, of course it was, but he’d done it anyway and now she had
to either wrestle with him or act as though half a job was enough.
She knew it wouldn’t be. Whatever they’d done to him this
time—it had covered him in great streaks of brownish, crusted blood. And though
the wounds that had leaked said blood were now completely gone, she had to get
the remains of it off him. She had to. Werewolf healing didn’t make you
magically clean and comfortable.
And that was the real kicker. The thought of him being
uncomfortable, of him festering in his bed all covered in the evidence of what
they’d done, each wound like a push pin sticking into his skin with a note
attached— Here’s where they hit me with a crowbar so hard it split the skin.
Here’s where they made me roll in broken glass, then laughed to see my eyes
blaze colorless, and my teeth bared like razorblades.
Of course, he didn’t go over completely, when they did all
of those things. But she’d seen the tapes and knew he got the eyes, the teeth,
the stripe of fur and strange new cartilage down the length of his spine, like
something out of a dinosaur’s graveyard.
She’d seen him turn and stare up at the camera, that pale
gaze searching and searching as though some part of his mind still understood,
and could feel her watching him.
It made her shiver. It made it hard to believe this man in
front of her was the same creature. Even now, with something wrong burning down
deep between them and his face turned away, she could see the great, gray
stillness of his eyes, like pebbles at the bottom of a river. He’d pulled his
lower lip almost completely into his mouth, too, which meant the razorblades
weren’t there. If they had been, they’d have sliced that thing clean off.
So why was her breath catching in her chest? Why could she
hear her heart hammering and hammering in some impossible place, like her throat
or behind her eyes or right out of her body and halfway down the hall? She kept
making the slow circles, everything getting soapier and soapier, nothing any
different than usual, not really, and yet the atmosphere kept getting heavier.
She could almost feel it now, pressing down on her bent
back. Something in her made her keep glancing at the door, though she couldn’t
say why. They weren’t doing anything wrong. She was his pseudo-nurse and he was
her pseudo-patient, and every day they did this very same thing. It didn’t
matter if the ward now seemed dim and strange and empty, with him being the
last Class One left and all the beds like markers, reminding them of the others
who’d escaped or gone mad or worse. It didn’t matter if he’d called her Serena
the other day instead of Nurse Kent or nothing at all.
And it definitely didn’t matter that she’d called him
Connor. Other nurses did it, she knew they did. Even the horrible one who liked
sticking pins in wolves until they snarled and bucked against restraints that
Conn never had to have—she called her patients by their names as though they
were still human. It was just easier to say, Conn, can you turn over ?
Even though she knew the others never asked.
Was that it? Was it the fact she’d asked instead of ordered
him? And she hadn’t even gone with the usual thing she called him either. She’d
said Connor instead, as though he really was still Connor Grayson somehow, a
man with a human life and a family in some bunker or fortress
She knew something was wrong before she’d even worked her
way down his body to the tented place beneath the sheet. She could tell by his
face—all taut with tension—and the way he was holding himself. Usually he
watched her run the soapy cloth over his chest and shoulders and…other parts of
him, but this time he’d turned his gaze away, and his shoulders seemed stiff.
It didn’t take her long to figure out what he was doing.
He’d pinched the sheet in with both of his arms so she couldn’t get beneath it.
It was stupid of him, of course it was, but he’d done it anyway and now she had
to either wrestle with him or act as though half a job was enough.
She knew it wouldn’t be. Whatever they’d done to him this
time—it had covered him in great streaks of brownish, crusted blood. And though
the wounds that had leaked said blood were now completely gone, she had to get
the remains of it off him. She had to. Werewolf healing didn’t make you
magically clean and comfortable.
And that was the real kicker. The thought of him being
uncomfortable, of him festering in his bed all covered in the evidence of what
they’d done, each wound like a push pin sticking into his skin with a note
attached— Here’s where they hit me with a crowbar so hard it split the skin.
Here’s where they made me roll in broken glass, then laughed to see my eyes
blaze colorless, and my teeth bared like razorblades.
Of course, he didn’t go over completely, when they did all
of those things. But she’d seen the tapes and knew he got the eyes, the teeth,
the stripe of fur and strange new cartilage down the length of his spine, like
something out of a dinosaur’s graveyard.
She’d seen him turn and stare up at the camera, that pale
gaze searching and searching as though some part of his mind still understood,
and could feel her watching him.
It made her shiver. It made it hard to believe this man in
front of her was the same creature. Even now, with something wrong burning down
deep between them and his face turned away, she could see the great, gray
stillness of his eyes, like pebbles at the bottom of a river. He’d pulled his
lower lip almost completely into his mouth, too, which meant the razorblades
weren’t there. If they had been, they’d have sliced that thing clean off.
So why was her breath catching in her chest? Why could she
hear her heart hammering and hammering in some impossible place, like her throat
or behind her eyes or right out of her body and halfway down the hall? She kept
making the slow circles, everything getting soapier and soapier, nothing any
different than usual, not really, and yet the atmosphere kept getting heavier.
She could almost feel it now, pressing down on her bent
back. Something in her made her keep glancing at the door, though she couldn’t
say why. They weren’t doing anything wrong. She was his pseudo-nurse and he was
her pseudo-patient, and every day they did this very same thing. It didn’t
matter if the ward now seemed dim and strange and empty, with him being the
last Class One left and all the beds like markers, reminding them of the others
who’d escaped or gone mad or worse. It didn’t matter if he’d called her Serena
the other day instead of Nurse Kent or nothing at all.
And it definitely didn’t matter that she’d called him
Connor. Other nurses did it, she knew they did. Even the horrible one who liked
sticking pins in wolves until they snarled and bucked against restraints that
Conn never had to have—she called her patients by their names as though they
were still human. It was just easier to say, Conn, can you turn over ?
Even though she knew the others never asked.
Was that it? Was it the fact she’d asked instead of ordered
him? And she hadn’t even gone with the usual thing she called him either. She’d
said Connor instead, as though he really was still Connor Grayson somehow, a
man with a human life and a family in some bunker or fortress
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