Page 74 of Wrongfully Magicked
When Stryker takes my hand, I smile and tug him toward the closest door. Pushing it open, I blow out a relieved breath when I find a full bathroom. I nudge Stryker until he’s sitting on the closed toilet lid, then I turn and search the room for supplies.
I bite back a cheer when I find a small first aid kit under the sink—small is better than nothing—and I clutch it to my chest when I rise. Setting the kit on the counter, I take stock of the meager supplies, then turn back toward Stryker and startle when I find him standing only a few inches away.
Blinking away my nerves, I look down at his injuries and frown when his fur blocks my view.
I purse my lips, then glance up at him from under my lashes, clearing my throat awkwardly. “Are you able to switch back to your human form?” I ask gently, because not all beastlings are able to return once they’ve been in their altered form for any length of time.
A grimace crosses his face, then he bows his head like he can’t bear to look at me, and he gives a little shrug. “I…don’t know. I haven’t tried in so long that I’m not sure anymore.” He rubs his jaw against his shoulder nervously, keeping his eyes lowered. “I’ll give it a try.”
The ‘for you’ is just a whisper in the air, and my heart flutters in my chest.
His voice is so low and lost that I struggle against the need to hug him. The impulse is so out of character for me that heat fills my cheeks, and I feel like an awkward teenager all of the sudden.
A grimace of pain crosses his face, then his skin ripples, and his fangs clench tight. A growl rumbles in his chest, as if his beast is fighting him. Despite knowing his beast could lash out at me, I can’t resist the need to comfort him, and I gingerly rest my hand on his shoulder.
He shudders at the touch but doesn’t pull away. The rumble in his chest fades, then his fur gradually recedes. I don’t know why I expected him to get smaller, but he remains the same size, coming around six feet tall if I had to guess. He’s without a shirt, leaving the large expanse of his chest bare. His worn jeans barely cling to his narrow hips, the material soiled and stained after months of abuse.
His shoulders are impressively broad despite the starvation he suffered, his body so lean, his ribs are pronounced, and my stomach lurches at what he had to endure. Not an ounce of fat remains on his frame, detailing every line of his muscles. I’m so distracted by his beauty that a trickle of blood running down his side snaps me out of my musings.
I quickly scan him, wincing at the number of scars decorating his body under the layers of dirt. There are too many to count at a glance, and I dismiss them to focus on the recent injuries. A nasty bite mark savaged his shoulder, but it’s the numerous claw marks that draw my attention.
There are over a dozen of them. They are all bleeding, and I can’t stop from scolding him. “Why didn’t you tell me you were hurt this badly?”
I grab a washcloth, busying myself by soaping it up to cover the shaking in my fingers. It’s not until he brushes his fingers over my shoulder that my head snaps up, and I gasp when I catch the image of him in the mirror.
I’d been so distracted by his injuries, I didn’t look up at his face, and now I can’t look away.
He’s stunning!
I think I was expecting him to have pale hair, but the shaggy strands are pure black, the ends ragged, as if sheared off by his claws. It’s messy and chaotic and absolutely gorgeous, but what really captures my attention are the two furry white and black ears sitting on the top of his head.
Oh, he still has his human ears, so it looks like he’s wearing some sort of headband.
As if sensing my attention, they twitch under my gaze, and my fingers itch to reach out and touch them.
My eyes drop to his face, but he avoids my gaze, a dark blush filling his pale cheeks. His face is so symmetrical, it doesn’t look real—his nose is broad, his lips full, his jaw strong. His blue eyes are so bright, they appear almost otherworldly. They shimmer, and I realize the orbs are reflective. The slit pupils should be repellent, but I find them oddly captivating.
I expected him to be older, but he’s barely twenty years old, if that.
He hastily drops his hand and steps back, and I can’t stop my gasp when I see his tail. It’s so long that it swishes back and forth in agitation. Even curled up, it still skims the floor, and I’m completely enchanted. It’s about three inches in diameter and so fluffy that I barely stop myself from reaching out and touching it to see if it’s as soft as it looks.
When he moves, blocking my view, I blink rapidly to shake off my fascination. Cursing myself for being so distracted, I clear my throat awkwardly and touch his arm. “Don’t go,” I plead with him softly. He’s been in beastling form so long that he’s no longer completely human, some of his leopard characteristics lingering, and I find it absolutely adorable.
“I’m sorry for staring. Pretty men turn me into a bumbling idiot.” I give him a self-deprecating grin, not even trying to fight my blush. It would be impossible.
He startles at my words, his head snapping up, and he searches my face. Whatever he finds must satisfy him, because he grins slowly. I don’t miss the double fangs peeking out from between his parted lips. I should be intimidated, but I shiver when I imagine what it would feel like if he nibbled along my neck or more delicate bits.
He straightens in front of me, standing to his full height for the first time, watching me for the slightest flinch.
It’s a test.
My fingers practically strangle the washcloth in my hand, nervous that I might come up lacking. Swallowing hard, I decide to start wiping away the dirt streaking his torso and carefully clean the wounds, glad to have the distraction.
He doesn’t flinch under my ministrations. Once he’s clean, I’m so mesmerized by the flex of his muscles that I’m unable to resist trailing my fingers over his pale flesh. I swear a slight purr rumbles under my fingertips, but then I shake my head at my own foolishness.
Pushing my silly fantasies away, I focus on the claw marks sliced along his ribs and hips. A few of them are light scratches, while others look like someone had been trying to dig their fingers into his body and shred his flesh.
Cursing myself for getting distracted, I probe the wounds and avoid his gaze. “It doesn’t look too bad. The bleeding has mostly stopped. I don’t think you’ll need stitches.”
