the clean, cream-colored sheets. I flushed just at being in Rafe's room, and jumped when Smith glanced around and headed back toward the living room. "He should be healing faster. We might need help. But for now, I'll get the first aid kit. Just keep him quiet, Meadow."
Keep him quiet. How the hell would I do that? The man was unconscious, his chest rising and falling in bare increments, and I was too scared to touch him. I hated blood. I really hated blood. And I hated seeing Rafe — gorgeous, intimidating, strong Rafe — helpless as a newborn kitten and slowly bleeding his life away. For the first time ever, I really hoped it was all a product of my imagination.
I swallowed trepidation and sat on the bed next to him, trying not to notice the furnishings and the private details that told me more about him than he'd had a chance to himself. The furniture was simple but clearly quality, reinforced by the softness of the sheets. They had to be a ridiculous thread-count. It looked like the kind of bed where you could nap all afternoon. Even what I could see through the open door to his closet was neat and tidy. Orderly, like he'd said.
He wasn't nearly so scary while unconscious. My fingers trembled as I touched his shoulder, surprised at the burning heat in his skin, and I jumped as Smith reappeared. He dropped a large black bag on the bed next to Rafe and started unloading supplies. He tossed me gauze and bandages and antibacterial cream, and said, "Start on that side."
We worked in silence, starting with Rafe's chest, then rolling him to his side so Smith could bandage his back. I held Rafe propped up, touching his face, and almost dropped him and fell off the bed when he moved. Rafe's hand slid over the sheets, searching for something, and he groaned. Smith frowned at me as he tried to attach an enormous bandage to a wicked series of claw marks on Rafe's lower back. "Talk to him, Meadow."
I cleared my throat and tried to think of something that didn't sound stupid. Rafe's eyes opened and searched the room, unfocused and desperate, and the breath rattled in his throat. He tried to sit up, tried to move, and I panicked. I caught his face in my hands. "Hey. Don't move. Just relax. We're almost done."
"Meadow," he said, a rough exhale, and he went limp again. But he didn't struggle. His hand found mine and squeezed, and I flushed even more as I squeezed back. Even if he did turn into a wolf, he'd tried to protect me. He'd jumped between me and at least two other wolves, and gotten injured as a result. It was my fault he lay on that bed, bleeding.
My vision blurred and I couldn't breathe, choking on tears and guilt. My fault.
Rafe groaned and tried to lift his head, reaching for me with his other hand. "It's okay."
I laughed, though it was a little teary, and I touched his face. He was the one injured and hurting, and he tried to reassure me. I patted his cheek, flushing to think that Uncle Smith sat right there, smiling to himself, as I sort of flirted with Rafe. "I'm sorry you got hurt, Rafe."
"Just a scratch," he said, a husky breath of sound. His eyes remained closed but a hint of a smile touched his mouth. "Worth it."
"Who were they? Who were those — wolves?" I tripped over the word, still not wanting to admit that there might actually be people in the world who turned into animals. And that I sat next to one and held his hand and tried not to picture him gloriously naked. Fine-boned and strapped with muscle. I shivered.
Rafe's expression tightened and he shook his head. "Don't worry. I'll handle it."
"There is a rival pack outside the city. They've been trying to take over the O'Shea pack territory for a month or so now. No doubt this was another attempt," Smith said, taping the last bandage across Rafe's side and back. He gestured at me and I helped ease Rafe to his back. My uncle eyed me for a moment, then arched an eyebrow. "There are several wounds on his legs that I should treat. Keep your eyes forward,
Keep him quiet. How the hell would I do that? The man was unconscious, his chest rising and falling in bare increments, and I was too scared to touch him. I hated blood. I really hated blood. And I hated seeing Rafe — gorgeous, intimidating, strong Rafe — helpless as a newborn kitten and slowly bleeding his life away. For the first time ever, I really hoped it was all a product of my imagination.
I swallowed trepidation and sat on the bed next to him, trying not to notice the furnishings and the private details that told me more about him than he'd had a chance to himself. The furniture was simple but clearly quality, reinforced by the softness of the sheets. They had to be a ridiculous thread-count. It looked like the kind of bed where you could nap all afternoon. Even what I could see through the open door to his closet was neat and tidy. Orderly, like he'd said.
He wasn't nearly so scary while unconscious. My fingers trembled as I touched his shoulder, surprised at the burning heat in his skin, and I jumped as Smith reappeared. He dropped a large black bag on the bed next to Rafe and started unloading supplies. He tossed me gauze and bandages and antibacterial cream, and said, "Start on that side."
We worked in silence, starting with Rafe's chest, then rolling him to his side so Smith could bandage his back. I held Rafe propped up, touching his face, and almost dropped him and fell off the bed when he moved. Rafe's hand slid over the sheets, searching for something, and he groaned. Smith frowned at me as he tried to attach an enormous bandage to a wicked series of claw marks on Rafe's lower back. "Talk to him, Meadow."
I cleared my throat and tried to think of something that didn't sound stupid. Rafe's eyes opened and searched the room, unfocused and desperate, and the breath rattled in his throat. He tried to sit up, tried to move, and I panicked. I caught his face in my hands. "Hey. Don't move. Just relax. We're almost done."
"Meadow," he said, a rough exhale, and he went limp again. But he didn't struggle. His hand found mine and squeezed, and I flushed even more as I squeezed back. Even if he did turn into a wolf, he'd tried to protect me. He'd jumped between me and at least two other wolves, and gotten injured as a result. It was my fault he lay on that bed, bleeding.
My vision blurred and I couldn't breathe, choking on tears and guilt. My fault.
Rafe groaned and tried to lift his head, reaching for me with his other hand. "It's okay."
I laughed, though it was a little teary, and I touched his face. He was the one injured and hurting, and he tried to reassure me. I patted his cheek, flushing to think that Uncle Smith sat right there, smiling to himself, as I sort of flirted with Rafe. "I'm sorry you got hurt, Rafe."
"Just a scratch," he said, a husky breath of sound. His eyes remained closed but a hint of a smile touched his mouth. "Worth it."
"Who were they? Who were those — wolves?" I tripped over the word, still not wanting to admit that there might actually be people in the world who turned into animals. And that I sat next to one and held his hand and tried not to picture him gloriously naked. Fine-boned and strapped with muscle. I shivered.
Rafe's expression tightened and he shook his head. "Don't worry. I'll handle it."
"There is a rival pack outside the city. They've been trying to take over the O'Shea pack territory for a month or so now. No doubt this was another attempt," Smith said, taping the last bandage across Rafe's side and back. He gestured at me and I helped ease Rafe to his back. My uncle eyed me for a moment, then arched an eyebrow. "There are several wounds on his legs that I should treat. Keep your eyes forward,
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