Page 73 of Dark Wolf Soul
“I don’t understand,” I say. “How is it possible that someone else can keep you from shifting?”
“An alpha is the only one of us who has the power to take away that ability,” Crow says quietly when no one else speaks up.
“None of them has actually fucking done it,” Dutch growls.
“Not even Franco’s that evil,” Ramsey says.
“No one’s that evil,” Grey replies.
“Vincenzo’s a son of a bitch,” Razor says, punching his palm with his fist. “He deserves—”
“We’re still standing in his house,” Mia points out, cutting him off with a pointed look.
Razor mumbles but doesn’t argue. I glance around, worried Vincenzo is somehow still listening, but there’s no sign of cameras. Clearly, they’re paranoid for a reason though.
“If he can’t shift, he can’t heal,” Ramsey says grimly.
No one says anything to that.
I bite my tongue, not wanting to distract further with my questions. “He needs a hospital,” I say instead.
That gets them on the same page instantly.
“Hell no,” Grey growls at the same time they all echo his sentiment.
“We can’t,” Mia says more gently than the others.
“Do you see his wounds?” I demand. “He needs stitches.”
“Hospitals will ask questions,” she tells me.
“And? Aren’t all the doctors in your pocket or something?”
“Not all of them,” she says, “And that doesn’t help us anyway. They’ll see Vincenzo’s attack on Grey a clear casting of blame for the mess at Franco’s earlier. They’ll see it as disloyalty and conflict within the family. Best case, it sends more votes Franco’s way. Worst case, it turns them against Grey entirely, and they try to put him down for what they perceive as a crime against both Vincenzo and Franco.”
“They’ll see him as a traitor,” Dutch adds grimly.
“Vincenzo deserves to be charged for this,” I say, refusing to back down. How can they just stand here and let it go?
“He wouldn’t be,” Mia says sadly.
Maybe it’s the worry coming through her words rather than raw fury like the others, but I believe her that taking Grey to a hospital will only make things worse politically. Doesn’t mean he’s out of the woods physically though.
“Fine then. Do you at least have a First Aid kit?”
“Last bedroom on the left,” Grey says. “Master bathroom.”
“Come on.”
With my support, we head that way. None of the others follow, and I don’t know if it’s their rage needing a cooling-off period or if they simply trust me to handle this. Several times, I’ve been the one to patch kids up at the shelter when they’ve gotten hurt living on the street, but I don’t have any experience patching up wounds quite this bad.
With my arm still around Grey’s waist, I lead us back into a large bedroom with enough white and neutral tones that I wince at the stains left by his dirty, blood-streaked footprints.
He doesn’t even seem to notice them.
In the bathroom, Grey perches on the wide edge of a jacuzzi tub ringed in marble. His handprint leaves smudges of blood that have my throat closing in guilt and worry. The ink on his arms is smudged with dirt and blood, obscuring most of the design, but up close I can finally see that’s a beautifully intricate pattern of lines and symbols. For a moment, I blink at him, forgetting what we came in here for.
His voice brings me back.
