Page 6 of Shared With The Pack

I shake my head at him and smile. That's a sweet thought, but there's nothing to be done. "This burn will take a week or two to heal, but don't worry about it. I'm more concerned about you. Your type is far more delicate."

Wren looks down at the cuts and bruises on his arms. There's likely more underneath his clothes too. His outfit sure is strange. Witches love black, but Wren's dressed head to toe in white.

"Could you...help me out of all this?"

"Yeah, of course."

Wren stands up, wincing, and slowly turns his back toward me. As he peels off the vest, I see his problem: he's got some type of damned corset on. It's laced up tight with additional embroidered hooks. There's no way he got this on by himself. Someone else had to have helped him into this thing.

I don't hesitate to free him of it. Pulling and tugging the strings keeping him bound, I loosen them enough that he's able to push it down. His corset and vest fall to the floor, and his undershirt comes off after that.

The rest of Wren's body is as pale as his face.

"Are my ribs okay?" he asks, looking down at himself. I turn Wren to get a better look at the potential damage. With light pressure, I press the pads of my fingers along his sides. The skin over his ribcage is pink. Wren doesn't react to my touch. No signs of pain or discomfort.

"Hm, they're not broken. Bruised, but nothing too bad. I think that lacing must have made it feel worse than it is. Sit back down." I gently guide him to the stool. "Let's get those cuts cleaned up. Don't want them getting infected."

While I dip a washcloth into the steaming bowl and wring it out, Wren kicks off his muddy boots and frees his feet from long socks. If you can even call them that. They're made of some see-through material. Wren throws them away with a look of disgust, left in nothing but his trousers.

"I'm guessing you didn't pick out that outfit." I press the warm cloth against a nasty cut on Wren's forearm. He winces, and I slow down. I wipe gently, getting out the debris first before I add the soap.

"No," Wren admits, his voice whisper-soft, "I didn't."

My words are as careful as my touch. I don't want to spook Wren again, but I do feel the need to know a little more about him. "And you don't know much about werewolves, do you?"

"I know they hate witches and...eat them."

What a silly idea. "Wren, you aren't on tonight's menu. I was thinking soup and bread. That sound good?"

Wren nods. As I finish tending to his hurts, he smiles at me. His mouth is such a tender shade of pink. It makes me want to -- no. I tidy up and get to preparing a meal for everybody to share, because if I don't keep myself busy, I might say something I'll regret. Or do something I can't take back.

My inner wolf is pacing, eager and restless for something I don't dare name aloud. I never thought this would happen. I'd long since made peace with the fact that it was never meant to be.

Yet I look at Wren, and it's as if a whole new world unlocks before me.

Mate, my wolf wants to howl, but I keep my trap shut. Wren has been through enough tonight. The last thing he needs is some strange werewolf slobbering all over him. Besides, I get the impression that Wren's survived many rough nights before this one. I used to see broken boys like him all the time. I spot that fragile way he holds himself. When I glance into those dark pools he has for eyes, I see a past that's both haunted and hunted.

I'll never hurt Wren.

And I'll let no harm befall him ever again.

Chapter 7

Wren

There's only one candle lighting the bathroom and no running water. Only a shallow basin filled with ice-cold water. I make use of it to wash my face, but do so quickly so I can get changed and re-join the others.

Ridge is in the kitchen making dinner. Heath lays fast asleep by the stove. Griff went back outside to check the damage to the chimneys. I think it's fair to say he hates me about as much as Ridge and Heath like me. Or maybe they're only being nice. I don't blame Griff for being put off by my presence. I did literally crash-land into his life. I noticed the broken window in the kitchen, haphazardly patched up with tape and a tarp. And I hurt Ridge too.

All of that is my fault, even if it was an accident.

Griff is right. I should get out of here as soon as morning comes, but I can't help but wonder...I bite down hard on my bottom lip and look into the mirror. A fine layer of dust covers the glass. The candle flickers and shadows dance across my half-naked body.

I think about Heath's quick attachment to me and Ridge's kindness. They've welcomed me into their home. Maybe if I stick around and help fix things, Griff will change his mind about me. Or at least let me stay long enough to figure out what I'm doing with my life and where I'm going next.

I peel off the rest of my clothes. The outfit Ridge lent me is too big. The loose sleeves of the flannel shirt swallow my arms, and the sweatpants hang low around my waist, threatening to fall off. There was no underwear, but that's fine. I'm just relieved to be out of my horrid wedding suit and happy to be in something clean and dry.

I take one more look in the mirror and make a promise before blowing out the bathroom candle: I'll make myself useful to the pack.