Page 51 of His Curse

But the one thing I do feel, the one thing I can feel above everything else and understand just as easily, is the profound uncertainty that surrounds my mate and I.

There's still love there, I know that to be fact, but what I don't know is what's going to happen in spite of it.

* * *

Eventually, after gods know how long, I stop crying and get to enjoying my first totally private shower since sometime during the 1970s.

I wash my hair twice because it needs it, but also because it feels amazing to use real shampoo and conditioner, products meant for luxury as well as cleanliness. The body wash is like a layer of silk on my skin, my skin that has been neglected and malnourished right along with the rest of me, and I can almost feel myself soak up the milk and honey like a sponge. And wow, to actually shave what little hair I have, to use shave cream and a razor to do a little maintenance is amazing. The simple act of shaving my legs and bikini line are enough to make me feel like a female again, one who used to be confident and strong, one who believed in herself and wanted to change the world.

And one who used to do little things in hopes of finding her mate, seducing him, and showing him her lady bits as soon and often as possible.

Not that I think anyone's going to see my lady bits any time soon, no one other than Cora and Frankie, anyway, since they bothdidjust see all my not so good goods on display. I doubt anyone else will be getting the same view in the near—or distant—future.

Especially not my mate. He probably won't be able to look at my face let alone any other part of me, and he definitely won't want to be intimate with a mangled, damaged female no matter who I am to him.

There are those damn tears again.

I need to stop thinking like this or else I'll be a total mess when I try to tell the group my story.

I doubt any of them would care if I cried. Not like they wouldn't give a shit over my pain, but they would understand if I was emotional, expect it even, but I don't want to be like that. I want to keep a stone face, stay strong, and prove to them I'm capable of leading them back to the others, that I’m capable of helping them rescue my friends. They don't need to deal with the scared and broken little wolf I'm hiding under the surface, and I'll be damned if I allow that to happen.

Feeling a little more grounded and better than I have in years, I step out of the shower, dry off and don the clothes Cora left for me.

The shorts fit around the waist but only because I'm still too thin for my natural build—something that will change quickly now that I have access to real food—but they definitely ride up to reveal a little bit of butt cheek since they probably sit mid thigh on Cora.

The tank top fits too, for the most part. It's a little short because I'm taller than her, and even with being malnourished, my boobs are a bit bigger than Cora’s, but it'll work for now. Maybe Frankie can lend me a shirt next time I need one so I'm not showing so much skin. So much skin mangled and ruined by my scars. Like I've said, I'm proud of them in a twisted way, but I don't want to talk about what happened to me either, definitely not while I’m with the group. I don't want anyone to focus on them, or mine and Colton's story. Especially without having a chance to talk to him first, but right now, I don't really have an option to hide the obvious.

Hopefully, they won't ask about my scars, not with so much other information I need to share, but if they do, I'll just tell them they happened a long time ago and leave it at that. Besides, I noticed a few scars on Cora, ones that aren't quite as noticeable as mine but hard to miss all the same. At least I know they won't treat me differently for them, won't be fazed by the fact that I look more like Frankenstein's monster than a female. Something I'm proud of but not everyone understands.

I grab the toothbrush Cora must have left out, scrub my teeth better than I have in gods knows how long, then pick up the comb.

One thing, one of the many things, I will never forgive Kentworth for doing to me?

Chopping off at least thirteen inches of my hair.

As a Lakota, I have always taken pride in how long my hair was, the way I was able to use its length to measure different parts of my life and recall various stories, but once I left the pack it became even more important to me. Every inch told a story in my mind, held different memories, different places or events that became ghosts of my past and when Kentworth took me, he ruined that along with everything else. He had one of the nurses cut my hair so it sits at my shoulders in a severe, straight line, then had them give me bangs to make it easier to wear the cap he used to measure my brain waves during his experiments.

It isn't a terrible haircut, the nurse that did it was kind of skilled, but I’d never choose to have it this short nor did I entertain the idea of bangs prior to this, but I had no say. I just had to grin and bear it like everything else.

The only perk from having my hair cut off was how it made it easier to take care of after I was beaten or put in the Black Box.

Blood and dirt wash out of short hair way easier regardless of the products used.

I replace the comb, run my fingers through the wet strands and take a good look at my reflection in an actual clean and unbroken mirror.

Still me.

Still have my scars, still have the gray and gold eyes like my father, though the left one is now permanently stuck in wolf form because of the way it was injured and how I tried to heal. I still have my dimples even though they're a little more pronounced because of the angry lines through my face. My body is definitely thinner than I've ever been, the bones outlined in a way I don't like because I haven't been fed properly in almost fifty years, and my usual curves are lacking for the same reason. But I'll fix that, the weight will come back quickly with the right diet and the ability to take care of myself the way I want to, the way I'll need to, so I'm strong enough to rescue my friends.

All in all, I’m still me despite the way I've changed, and maybe I'm better for some of it.

Who fucking knows.

One more look at my reflection has me wishing I had something else to wear, that I had something a little less revealing, something a little nicer than pajamas, but I'm not ungrateful, so I won't ask. Anything is better than scrubs.

And if I'm being honest with myself, picking apart my appearance is just a way for me to stall and put off going out there to face a group of total strangers. To put off the possibility of seeing my mate for the first time in over one-hundred-and-thirty years.

So with a deep, calming breath, I lift a shaking hand to the knob and pull open the bathroom door, and immediately melt when I'm met with two sets of the brightest blue eyes—one electric, one pale—looking up at me expectantly.

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