Page 36 of Fool Moon First Aid

I hesitantly touch the first one, a well-loved, vintage green T-shirt. The band’s logo is barely visible, its colors faded to whispers of their former glory, but I don’t dare dwell on it as my fingers drift to the next. It’s a loud tie-dye number that just screams Tyler, its vibrant hues and chaotic patterns a glaring contrast to the first. Moving to the last one, I finger the softest black fabric I’ve ever felt, like touching a shadow turned into silk. Without a second thought, I pull it over my head, feeling the hem caress my thighs just above my knees.

The house is as silent as a crypt. There’s no sign of Ethan or the others yet, which probably means I have a window. Despite this nagging notion that I should be under the covers, I tiptoe downstairs. Each creak of the door and tap of my crutches against the floor feels like a blaring announcement of my presence. Stealth mode, this is not.

The kitchen has a sliver of light over the island, throwing long shadows over the cabinets. “If I were a wolf, where would I stash pain meds?” I whisper to myself, then snort at the absurdity. Wolves don’t need pain meds. They are all about rapid healing, but humans? That’s a whole different story…

I start the hunt. The first cabinet? Cups, their porcelain faces reflecting the dim light. The next? Plates, stacked neatly like silent, ceramic sentinels. And the third? Bowls—too many to count. The fourth cabinet, way up high above the microwave, is a real stretch. I’m on tiptoes, my fingers barely grazing the edge, when a prescription bottle does a free-fall. “Bingo.”

I glance around the deserted kitchen and, with a wary nibble of my lip, haul a chair over. The legs scrape softly, and I pause, hoping no one heard. I know climbing on it is the worst idea ever, but desperation has a grip on me, and there’s no way I’m hollering for the guys. Besides, I feel like they are mad at me, and I hate that.

I step onto the chair, feeling every bit the rebel, and then onto the counter, my cast adding a whole level of awkward to the mix. I scour the cabinet, my eyes peeled for that telltale red bottle.

“What the hell are you doing?” Ethan’s voice cuts through the silence, sharp and disapproving, nearly scaring the life out of me. His figure looms in the doorway, the faint light casting him in a silhouette of rigid authority. I freeze, busted, as the weight of my desperate search starts to sink in.

I know I’m about to take a tumble when my arms start flailing wildly, mimicking a propeller on the fritz. Luckily, unlike last time, the ground doesn’t come rushing up to meet me. Instead, strong arms encircle me, their hold firm yet gentle, stopping my descent. My heart drums a frantic beat in my chest as I gaze up into Ethan’s face, my hand resting against the heat of his chest—a chest that I pray is covered. I mentally chastise myself. Don’t look down. Simple, right? Just don’t look.

Then the delayed ache from my near fall blooms, and a small, involuntary whimper betrays my stoic façade.

“Fucking hell, Ava,” Ethan snarls, each syllable dripping with frustration. Anger carves deep lines into his rugged, handsome face, yet his grip tightens, as if releasing me might shatter the moment. “What were you thinking?” Without waiting for my answer, he pivots, his movements a dance of controlled power as he strides across the kitchen to the living room and gently deposits me onto the plush couch.

“I need pain meds,” I snap out, the comfort of the cushions doing little to soothe my frayed nerves. I’m a cocktail of exhaustion, pain, and irritation.

Ethan shuts his eyes, the muscles in his jaw working as he shakes his head, muttering, “Fragile, stubborn women.” The sting of unshed tears builds behind my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. Instead, I clench my jaw and lift my chin with defiance.

“Fuck.” He stands abruptly, the fabric of his sweatpants stretching taut, leaving little to the imagination as he storms off. My gaze follows his retreating figure, the broad expanse of his back a testament to his strength, as he rifles through the medicine cabinet, finally grabbing the red pill bottle that holds the promise of relief. He moves to the fridge with a scowl etched on his face, retrieving a soda and a cheese stick before marching back and thrusting the makeshift remedy into my hands.

Swallowing my uncertainty, I accept the meds and the snack, setting them beside me on the small side table. His gaze pins me down as I pop open the soda and pill bottle, slipping two tablets onto my tongue before washing them down with a swig of the fizzy drink.

“Cheese,” he commands tersely, his eyes rolling skyward, “so you don’t burn a hole in your stomach.”

Right. Chastised, I nibble on the cheese stick, feeling a wave of self-consciousness wash over me. Any small adjustment I make on the couch draws another audible expression of annoyance from Ethan.

“Woman,” he mutters under his breath, his fingers deftly snatching a blanket from the back of the couch and draping it over me. He then retreats to the farthest corner of the couch, as if distance could douse the tension between us.

“Thanks,” I murmur, my voice softer than I intended, the word floating in the charged air between us. “So…”

“Don’t,” he says with a sharp shake of his head, his voice a low rumble of warning. “Next time, just ask for the meds.” He’s treating me like a reckless child rather than an injured woman.

“I don’t need your permission to take meds for my broken bones,” I retort, my patience fraying at the edge.

“Clearly you do, considering you nearly got yourself killed. Again,” he counters, his tone laced with a mix of worry and stern admonishment.

“Don’t be so dramatic,” I scoff, unwilling to admit he might have a point. “I was fine.”

“You almost fell. Again,” he snaps out, the growl in his voice rising.

Rolling my eyes, I retort, “And you caught me. So what’s the big deal?”

“That is not the point,” he insists, his voice a blade of ice cutting through the warm air.

That only fuels my determination to stand my ground. “Well, it’s not like I’m in my own home. I don’t know where you stash the pain meds.”

“They aren’t stashed,” he fires back, his patience unraveling like a frayed rope.

“If they weren’t, I wouldn’t have needed to climb the chair,” I argue, my resolve hardening as I sit up, ready for this verbal duel. He’s not getting the last word.

“How the hell did you even get on the chair? I’m amazed you didn’t trip over thin air while dragging it,” he retorts, sitting up straighter, his eyes darkening with a storm of emotions.

I suppress the urge to make a snarky comeback. “I wouldn’t have had to if you goons hadn’t kidnapped me,” I counter, the fire in my belly igniting.

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