Page 33 of To Hunt A Wolf
“Nice to see you too,” I say dryly.
She ignores both my words and the sarcasm dripping from them.
“I brought you some things.”
I follow her nod to a small bag on the floor near the wall.
When I look up again, she glances down at the bandages covering my shoulder. “Venom?” she asks.
“The tracker’s claws were coated.”
“And you haven’t healed it yet?”
I grit my teeth. “My wolf was muted recently, courtesy of Thiago. My healing’s still a bit slow.”
“You always were prone to accidents,” she says as if this is somehow my fault.
Instead of replying, I toss the covers aside and swing my legs over. Unlike Tripp or Levi, my mother doesn’t try to stop me.
My head spins for a minute then settles again. I’m faint. Weak. I probably need food and water and a couple of Aspirin. But I’ll live.
Standing brings another wave of dizziness, but I push through.
There is no version of this where I remain in this tiny-ass room with my mother for company. Briefly, I wonder if Tripp called her simply because he knew it would get me moving again. Then I dismiss it. He’s not that conniving.
Levi is.
I banish that thought too.
After finding and losing him twice now, I refuse to think about the man I’m supposed to be hunting.
When I can walk without swaying, when my mother’s hot gaze isn’t boring into the center of my back, I’ll think of him then.
I snag the duffel bag by the wall and make it into the bathroom without further barbs traded. Just as I’m shutting the door behind me, I hear my mother call, “Don’t take too long. We’ve got shit to do.”
The door clicks shut, and I let the back of my head thud against it.
Deep breaths, Mac.
You faced down a tracker whose claws were laced with snake venom and survived.
You can survive her too.
I strip and stand in front of the mirror, waiting for the shower water to warm up behind me. I concentrate on the tape holding the gauze in place. With careful fingers, I peel it back from one side and study the skin underneath. It’s already closed over with ugly scabs. A product of my wolf healing. But underneath the scabs and surrounding them, my skin is a disgusting shade of yellow.
The poison is going to take a bit longer to shake.
A smarter person would be resting.
Unfortunately, I don’t have the luxury of rest.
The sting of ripping the bandage off makes me hiss. Tossing it aside, I look back at my reflection again.
My body isn’t what I’d call beautiful. Strong, yes. But my hips aren’t curved, and my breasts aren’t full, and the tattoos I use to cover all my scars are a far cry from society’s beauty standards. My fingertips trace my eyebrows, one then the other. They’re sharp and angled like my face, little slashes over my hazel eyes that have a way of always making me look angry.
Or maybe Iamalways angry.
Like mother, like daughter.
