Page 15 of Sold Rejected Mate
Last night, I managed to maneuver her into the guest room, propping her up on pillows. When I brought in a stack of warm clothes and tried to wipe the soot from her face, she took them from me, refusing to meet my eyes or do anything until I left the room.
When I checked on her this morning, she woke up the moment I walked in the door, flinching away from me like I might hit her.
All night, I was worried that she was going to try making a run for it again. Or a crawl for it, based on what I saw.
The good news is that it looks like her leg is still bad enough that she’s not going to make it far. The bad news is that her throat is either stillverydamaged or she’s choosing not to talk.
And I don’t know how long Xeran is going to give her to heal.
When I bring her lunch, she stares at me with an expression that’s so convoluted that I find myselfsureI must have seen her before. A stranger can’t look at you like that, with a gaze that holds layers of complex emotions.
But the question is,wheredo I know her from?
Every time I move or speak too loudly, she jerks like I might hit her. Which doesn’t make any sense, considering the fact that I literally saved her life.
Twice, if you count me not letting Xeran take her back to the pack hall and make a quick example of her.
I have no idea if he would actually have the stomach to do it—to execute a woman, anomega, for fuck’s sake. But it’s thanks to me that she doesn’t have to find out.
You’d think that work might earn me a thank you. That me offering her my home and caring for her might convince her that I’m not some evil monster.
Instead, she watches me with those dark eyes, not letting me anywhere near her when I suggest maybe we find a way to clean her up, get the soot and ash off her body, wash her hair.
“Are you hungry?” I ask for the third time, just after lunch. She stares at me from the bed, her eyes flicking between me and her leg like I’m the reason it’s not working. “I could make soup. Easy on your throat.”
She looks at me the same way she has been all day. Wary. Suspicious.
I bring her soup, and she doesn’t eat it. I put a glass of water on her bedside table, and she refuses to touch it. All she does, all day, is sit in the bed, refusing to accept a single thing from me.
Finally, after hours of struggling, pacing, and generally not knowing what to do, I press the button that reveals the TV in the wall, sliding away. Her eyes widen at the sight, and it brings me some pleasure to see her showing an emotion other than disdain.
I set the channel to HGTV, not knowing what else to choose, and we sit quietly together, watching the show. When I glance at her, I catch her looking longingly at the glass of water.
That’s when I realizewhyshe’s not taking the water. Why she was trying to escape last night. It’s something to do with her pride. Not wanting me to give her anything.
The words come out of me before I can stop them, “You know, you don’t have to pretend not to be in pain. The doctor said your throat might take a week to heal. It’s okay to need help.”
When she turns to look at me, the expression on her face is so sad—almost like grief—that it catches me off-guard. On the TV, someone is gasping at their renovation reveal.
For a second, her eyes dart to the water again, and she looks like she might accept it. I even start rising out of the chair, moving toward her. I’ll hand it to her—hell, I’ll hold the glass to her lips if it means she’ll drink something.
But when she reaches for it, it’s too fast. Too wild. She knocks the cup off the table, and I have no idea whether it was intentional or not. Either way, water goes splashing over the floor, soaking into the rug, and when I look up at her, she’s looking resolutely at the TV again.
As I clean up the water, drying it with towels and being grateful I picked shatter-proof glasses, I wonder if Xeran might have been right. If he read the situation right, and there’s something wrong with my gut, my instinct, that’s telling me to protect her.
When I set a new, untouched glass of water on the nightstand, her eyes flick to me, desperation clinging to them.
I feel the same way. I just have to figure out how to get through to her.
***
By the second day, I think she might actually kill herself by refusing to drink water. I check on her before going to sleep,and five hours later, when I’m up again, the water is at exactly the same level it was before.
But the channel on the TV has changed, colors dancing across the screen. The kind of old-school Saturday morning cartoons I used to watch with a bowl of cereal in our living room. The sound of them is comforting.
The wan look on her face is not.
When I told Xeran I’d take her, I thought it would be simple. I could help her get well, plead her case, and get rid of this nagging feeling in my chest.
