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Where is Godric? I wonder. Something tells me that he should have been here by now.
The shifters who attacked me seemed worried he was going to appear at any moment, but he hadn’t.
Even when I needed him.
I almost died.
A strange grief swells in my chest that hurts far more than my broken jaw.
He didn’t protect me.
Ze’ev enters Godric’s tent, navigates to the neat piles of furs, and gently sets me down. He quietly works his way around the room, finding the wood to pile into the center, and then he pulls out some flint. The fire sparks to life, and he babies the flame.
I watch him as he works, mesmerized by his calmness and his confidence in an Alpha shifter’s tent.
It’s like he’s been here before.
Maybe he has.
I don’t actually know what Ze’ev is or what his history with Godric might be. We always work together under moonlight, but tonight, the fire illuminates his features,which are soft like Arwan’s, but there’s a harshness to him that betrays a lifetime of hardship.
He wears leather jewelry and feathered decorations I hadn’t had time to appreciate before. His hair is short but has grown shaggy over the past few weeks, as if he’s been too distracted to cut it.
When he catches me staring, he furrows his brow, then hurries to the other side of the tent.
When he returns, I know he’s holding my vials. It doesn’t even surprise me that he found them.
First, he removes one and then examines the contents. They turn visible the moment they’re pulled out of the magicked belt.
He returns it and tries another, then puts the belt down when he finds the healing tonic.
Gently, he places his hand under my head and tilts it back. I choke on the blood running down my throat, but he’s quick to give me a few drops of the tonic.
The pain instantly begins to wane.
I squeeze my eyes shut as the tonic does its work and resets my jaw. Pain snaps through me with each readjustment, and I don’t dare make a sound, or else I know I’ll scream.
When the worst of the healing is over with, I open my eyes again.
Ze’ev is holding a notepad. Periodically, he seems to procure new ones, and I’m still not sure where he gets them.
Better? the note reads.
His thumb strokes my jaw where it’s still tender. When I shy away, he removes his touch.
“I’m fine,” I say with a sharpness to my tone that makes him flinch.
Furrowing my brow, I don’t understand his reaction. “You used me to kill your rivals, remember? Don’t think saving my life makes us even when you risked it in the first place.”
Just because Godric has been having the Outcast train me doesn’t mean that either of us has forgotten about that.
His eyes widen, then he gives me the sign for “no” by extending his index finger and middle finger together, then holding it over his chest. Over our training sessions, it hasn’t been practical to always write notes, and he’s taught me a few gestures that have become our own personal language. I doubt that anyone ever formally taught him the sign language I know is used out in the villages or places where healing isn’t readily available, but that didn’t stop Ze’ev from making his own language.
As I continue to glare at him, he signs the word for “no” again.
“You can deny it all you like, but I know who those vampires were. You were using me.”
He reluctantly scribbles another note.
