20 - Not Like This

Clutching at my side — I'm certain a few of my ribs are broken or, at the very least, fractured — I stagger across the impossible space between us, Rowan's name leaving my lips in a hoarse cry.

I collapse in a heap at his side. He doesn't stir. Every breath he takes is weaker than the last. What if he doesn't wake up? What if that sickening collision has broken something vital?

I'm lost in space, drifting further and further towards the dark. Grief slices clarity to shreds.

"No, no, no," I manage breathlessly, my hands sliding through his dark fur stained crimson. I can't see him properly— tears blur my vision. "Rowan, wake up. Wake up. Please. Please don't leave me. Not like this."

Terror cracks my voice and chokes the breath from my lungs. I can't breathe. I stare down at him and flickers shoot through my head. The bullet between Esme's eyes, her limp form in my arms, the emptiness of her loss, the dirt smeared across my face in the rear view mirror of the car I stole.

I can't go through that again. I can't lose him, too. I can't live a shadow of a life without him at my back.

I never— I never told him I loved him.

"Rowan, please," I beg around desperate gasps for air. "Please don't leave me. You— you said we'd get out of this together."

Panic has my heart in a death-tight grip, relentlessly squeezing. My Haze flickers and agony surges forwards. I can't take it. A weight settles on my chest, dragging me further into the dark. I'm clawing for the light, straining for air, but I just keep sinking. Darkness lurks like tangled vines on my peripheral; awareness collapses to a single, eternal moment of horror.

Right as I'm at the cusp of a deeper insanity, he stirs. Only a little — ears flicking, nose twitching — but it's enough.

And it's as though my feet touch solid ground.

With a broken sob, I pull his head onto my lap and bury my face against his soft fur, relief coming just as sharp as the grief. As the terror.

He whines, his tail thumping weakly against the ground as he melts into my hold. He tilts his head a little to sniff at my hair. I've never been so close to his wolf, before, but now I can't get close enough.

Every sob that tears through me sends a thunderclap of agony surging in my chest, but I can't stop. I thought I'd lost him. Nothing else matters but holding him close. I'm gasping hard between the sobs and every breath is laced with his scent. Cinnamon, musk, nutmeg, peace. He smells like home. I can't lose him. I can't lose my home.

I feel when he starts to shift back. His form goes tense against mine and ripples and shudders until his fur becomes skin, until his whines become gasps of pain, until he slides his arms carefully around my form and holds me steadfast to him. I return his embrace fervently.

"River, it's alright. I'm okay. Breathe for me, love," he murmurs weakly against me. His forehead is pressed into my neck, the curve of his nose settled against my collarbone, and I feel every shuddering breath he takes against my skin.

At the assuring sound of his voice, I only cry harder. He's shaking in my arms, though whether from pain, shock, or the icy air swirling around us, I can't say. He melts against me, a soft, bleary apology on his lips.

I pull back and study him fervently for injury— not that the map of his pain is hard to decipher. Blood is smeared across his face and there's a substantial cut on his brow. Tangled roots of crimson stream down his temple. His chest pulls at my focus; the lycanthrope has dug its claws deep into him and there's four puncture wounds seeping rivers of blood. They aren't healing.

"I thought I lost you," I manage, the words thick in my mouth as my gaze finds his. "You— you wouldn't wake up."

"I'm right here," he vows, his voice thin with pain, his eyes searing golden fear. "I'm not going anywhere. Breathe for me."

It hurts, but with an effort I match my breaths to his slow, deep ones until the jagged edges of my panic become smooth.

"That's it," he praises, pressing his forehead to mine. I melt against him, sucking in deep breaths laced with his scent. Too close. That was way too fucking close.

For a moment, we're both quiet, gasping softly, holding one another close. The rest of the world could be on fire and I wouldn't care.

A flicker of clarity. My gaze darts past him and I scan the woods fervently for the lycanthropes. Carnage greets me. The limp forms of wolves lie sprawled in the grass, with others whining and digging softly at their fallen. The echo of furious howls rise on the air as the Lakeside pack — or what's left of it — chase off the monsters who almost took Rowan from me.

The next time I see those creatures, I'll destroy them.

Rowan melts against me with a stifled groan of pain, his head falling to rest on my shoulder. I hold him close and scan the woodland fervently for any threats.

A familiar wolf comes limping over, golden eyes glowing in the dark, hackles raised to attention, his fur drenched in crimson.

"Lach, are you okay?" I ask.

Lachlan's wolf yips in return, sniffing at us both. His hackles fall soft and he grumbles and growls— but it isn't a hostile sound, more of an admonishing one.

"Sorry," Rowan mumbles weakly against me, as though he's understood Lachlan perfectly. "I thought I had it."

The wolf catches my gaze and whines, folding his ears back and tilting his head at me.

I have an idea of what he's asking. "I'm fine."

I don't sound it. My strained voice shudders and slurs a little and I can't shake off the fear clinging to me. It steals my breath and my strength.

Rowan lifts his head from my shoulder, and I realise he's noticed the wound on my head when he inhales sharply. "Fuck, Riv. That's a deep one."

My gaze darts down his form once more, and as he fusses over my head, I study the punctures weeping crimson and manage, "Your chest. It's not healing. Why isn't it healing?"

"It is," he assures me. "It's just—" He winces a little and admits softly— "It's just taking a little longer than usual. I'm fine, I promise."

Both our gazes dart across the clearing at the sound of a stifled gasp. Matteo has shifted back and his form is covered in dirt and blood and bruises. Yipping, Lachlan's wolf races over to check on him and Kay.

"Fuck," Teo manages around a shuddering cough.

"Are you both alright?" I ask, worry pinching my brows and tone. I almost lost my family tonight. The thought is a jolt of electric terror striking through me.

"We're okay— just about," he says, his voice tight as he stares down at Milo's still wolf. Horror sparks a golden inferno in his eyes. "Fuck, fuck, fuck—" he gasps. "He's gone. They're all gone."

My focus drifts towards the wolves scattered across the clearing. Most are picking themselves up, limping and bleeding, but some slump forms are still. Dead. Around them, wolves gather in sorrowful bunches, yipping softly, whining, digging at their fallen in a futile attempt to rouse them.

Every shred of my attention had been on the second lycanthrope, and as it tore through Milo and nearly killed the rest of us, the first had been wreaking havoc on the Lakeside pack.

The pack's furious second wind makes sense now, as my fractured thoughts slip back in time, to a night where I killed a luna wolf and her pups descended in rage. The lycanthrope killed Milo, and the Lakeside pack sought their revenge for their gamma.

There's two of those creatures putting this pack and my family in danger, and I can't kill them. Not before they can do some real damage to those I care about.

Kay's wolf whines and tries to stand, only for their whine to break off into a pained yelp as they put pressure on their front legs. Lachlan's wolf whines a forlorn melody and tries to help them up to no avail.

Matteo is gasping hard, tumbling head-first into shock. "There's— holy shit, there's two of them and it— it smelt like her and—"

"Teo," Rowan cuts him off. Though his voice is weak, there's a flicker of that alpha fire of his— all soothing tones and calm power.

It works; Matteo glances up and catches Rowan's gaze, and something about the raw edges of his panic becomes smooth. He takes a deep, shuddering breath and says, "It's her, Ro. The lycanthrope, it— it didn't kill Grace. It turned her. Fuck, she nearly killed you."

A brittle, heavy silence descends between us. I think of the monster that pinned me — smaller than the first, but no less deadly — and then I recall Darius' words. The lycanthrope took his daughter. He said it snatched her away, and he presumed it killed her.

One thought — hot as an iron brand — slices through the haze of confusion and pain. That lycanthrope can turn a werewolf into a monster just like it. Their bite can either curse or kill a werewolf.

"Shit," Rowan manages at last.

Did we get them?

I whirl on him, hysteria tightening at my throat as I check his form more fervently. "Did it bite you?" I demand. Mercifully, the punctures on his chest have stopped bleeding, and I can't find any incriminating bite marks, though I search desperately just in case. "Did any of you get bitten?"

He gives himself over to my chaotic search, and a chorus of refusals and assuring yips rises on the air. When I don't stop, Rowan takes my head in his hands and gently lifts my gaze to his.

"River, hey, look at me— we're fine. We're all fine. None of us were bitten."

I'm about to answer when the bushes opposite shudder. In a whirl, I snatch up one of my fallen knives from the ground close by and aim, my focus locking onto the shrubs like a laser point. The breath rushes out of me; a steady, controlled exhale as my Haze flickers to life.

Right as Rowan starts to reassure me, his tone gentle and placating, dark forms emerge from the shadows, shaking out their fur and grumbling. Wolves. The Lakeside pack. They glance our way with flaming eyes of gold before devoting their attention to their own. Warily, I settle and lower the knife, but my grip on the hilt stays firm.

Imogen and Darius emerge after them, hollow-eyed, features slackened with grief. In their arms, they carry bundles of clothes. The clothes they wear are smeared with dirt and blood. Around them, wolves cower and whine softly.

Darius glances up and his gaze finds us. A flicker of relief — timid as a candle in a storm — passes behind his eyes. There and gone. He says weakly, "We lost them. They were too fast."

At his side, Imogen stares down at Milo. Tears track down her cheeks, but she doesn't seem to notice. She only stares; lost in the darkness of her thoughts.

"I'm sorry," Rowan manages. "I'm so, so sorry."

"Don't," Darius returns, dropping the clothes into a heap at his feet and raising a shaking hand in our direction. He sucks in a shuddering breath and chokes out, "Please don't. That thing has turned my baby into a monster. It's killed my beta and my gamma. It's taken almost everything from me." He breaks off with a stifled sob and drops to his knees beside the limp form of Milo's wolf. He bows his head, his shoulders shaking hard, utterly defeated.

Imogen places a hand on his back, and a silent exchange seems to flow between them; a passage of strengths and weaknesses, of grief and determination. Then she lifts her empty gaze towards us and comes limping over.

"I am sorry for dragging you all into this mess of ours," she tells us, her voice shuddering as she drops a heap of clothes onto the ground. Her gaze finds mine and she forges on, "But I'm afraid I must ask more of you. We need you more than ever. If that—" She breaks off, takes a deep, composing breath, and continues more softly, "If that thing has turned my little girl into a monster, I need you to kill it. I need you to kill them both."

"Imogen—" Matteo begins weakly.

"Go back to the pack house," she says, cutting him off. "Heal up and rest, if you can. We'll be along shortly. But first, I'd like to see to our losses privately."

Without waiting for a response, she turns and approaches the carnage, only to sink to her knees at her fated's side with a sob.

For a moment that stretches on and on, we're all quiet. And then Lachlan's wolf limps over to the heap of clothes, grabs some in his mouth, and starts to distribute them between us.

I help dress Rowan, and I use the opportunity to study those healing marks fervently, just in case. He assures me that he's fine, but I know the fight has shaken him. I know he's hurt and I know there's a chance he wouldn't have woken at all. Fear clings to me like a second skin and has my Haze lurking just out of reach— ready at a moment's notice.

Despite gentle coaxing from Teo, Kay's wolf won't shift back. So instead, when he's dressed, he lifts them up into his arms.

"Are they alright?" I ask as Lachlan starts to shift.

There's something slow and timid about the process— and I realise even Rowan's shift back to his human form had been careful.

"They're fine," Teo assures me as Kay's tail thumps in solidarity. "It's just, when we shift, any injuries we have in one form have to shift to fit the other. It's not a great feeling. They want to heal a bit first before they try shifting."

I send Rowan a sharp look, a flicker of fire. He's hurt — badly — and he could've made his injuries even worse by shifting back.

He offers me a little smile and explains softly, "I couldn't talk to you otherwise."

I open my mouth to rebuke him but no sound comes out.

As I kneel there, grappling with a devotion so fierce it steals my breath, Rowan glances towards the others and says, "Come on. Let's head back and give them a little privacy."

By now, Lachlan has shifted and dressed himself, and without a word he approaches to help us up.

I'm so focused on helping Rowan up that I disregard the agony surging through the cracks in my mind, but it bears down on me regardless. As I stumble a little, a wave of dizziness and agony crashing over my head, Rowan steadies me, his brows pinching with concern. I shrug off his worry; though my head hurts, I recognise a pleasant stream of fire in the inferno and know it's healing. Slowly and painfully, but healing all the same. Just like my shoulder, and just like my ribs.

We turn our backs on the sombre gathering in the clearing, leaving behind the remnants of the lost fight, the carnage and the blood and the slump wolves who died to protect their own. And, helping one another along, we limp back towards the pack house, nursing battered forms and bruised egos.

Our odds have just gone from bad to worse. If I'm going to get rid of those lycans, and keep my family alive in the process, I'm going to need all the help I can get.