Animals ✔

Chapter 8

Tiberius has been staring at me since he told me the wolf got away. He moved into a chair that I hadn't noticed was next to the bed and has just sat there looking at me in silence.

For some reason it doesn't feel creepy. All I can think about is how much I would give to hear his thoughts. I'm not sure why he hasn't started pestering me with questions or smothering me, but I'm thankful.

Until he opens his mouth, that is.

"You were stabbed?"

Unconsciously my fingers reach under the loose tank top I'm wearing and make contact with the puckered skin. He's watching me intently, as though I'll somehow get up and run away at any moment, and it makes me nervous.

After a while, I force myself to take a deep breath and respond. "Not stabbed, no—well, not with a knife anyway," I instantly regret the extra detail, seeing Tiberius's eyes flash darkly. But the words continue to fall from my lips regardless.

"It was a threat; it wasn't meant to kill me, so I guess I got lucky there." A dry, bitter laugh bursts past my lips and I can almost feel the claw as it buries itself in the flesh of my stomach.

I pull the blankets down and hold my tank top just above my ribs, giving Tiberius a good view. The scar is pink and puckered, having never healed right, and runs about five inches in length, running parallel to my left bottom rib.

Tiberius's eyes darken again at the sight, but this time it takes him a few minutes to get himself under control. "I did the stitches myself. That's why it looks like that. I guess I'm probably lucky I didn't die of an infection or something."

It's the growl that makes me realize that I'm still talking—still explaining something that he shouldn't know—and I bite down on my tongue to keep from continuing. It's like I've been put under a spell; when he asks so gently I can't help but respond.

I don't want to look at him. As much as I don't want to care what he thinks of my scar—scars now, I suppose—I do anyway. I imagine that when my new wounds scar over they'll blend in a bit better than the one on my stomach, at least.

My eyes lock on the heart monitor, which was turned off not long after Dr. Morris left, and I think about how my life came to this point. And, as I often do, I find myself wondering what Charlie would think. Would she tell him everything? Or would she try to get as far away as possible from this mess?

"What are you thinking?" Tiberius's voice breaks into my thoughts and when I look at him he seems significantly calmer than he was before.

"I was thinking about my sister," I tell him. I don't need to tell him everything to talk about her, and it feels nice. For once, I don't feel the oppressive grief that usually follows when I think of her.

Tiberius takes his time to respond and it's obvious he's talked to Jon about me—he knows that this is a touchy subject. "What's she like?"

I bite my lip, "Brave. She was always the courageous one. She had so much conviction—she knew what was right and she didn't hesitate to do it. No matter what."

We fall silent again, and I fiddle with my fingers, glad he's letting the subject drop, but hoping he won't say anything to Jon about my use of the past tense. Jon will be happier not knowing.

*

This time the dreams don't involve Charlie at all. Just brief flashes of snarling fangs, the thick stench of smoke, and sharp, pained whimpers that I'm sure will haunt me for years to come.

I toss and turn, unable to get the images out of my mind. My back aches every time I move and I have to be careful not to jostle my leg too much. Eventually I just lay on my side in the dark, eyes still closed but somehow wide-awake.