Ensnared

Chapter 10

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I had hoped to finish ENSNARED before November, but I misjudged how much time I had and how much I could write, so I apologize. The story is not abandoned, though, I promise. Finishing it during NaNoWriMo is my first writing priority, and it will be the first story I edit and post in December. Apologies again, and thank you for understanding!

What do I want to do? The real problem is that Becky has too many answers to that particular question. She wants a long hot shower, but she also wants to sleep. She wants to call her mother so she can ramble, but she also doesn't want to have to think until breakfast. She wants Sasha and she wants Seth and all the wanting is starting to make her feel selfish, or at least unworthy. Shower, she tells herself, opening the door to the suite she's sharing with Sasha. She undresses quickly, grabs her kit, and heads to the bathroom.

The shower is lovely and refreshing—warm and misty, loud enough to drown out her thoughts without hurting her ears—but it isn't enough. She knows she's too keyed up to sleep, though, and the thought of calling her mother no longer holds much appeal; Annette is happy she has a pack to rely on in America, but she doesn't understand the sexual dynamics between Becky, Sasha, and Seth at all, and Becky doesn't feel like having that argument again, at least not in her current state. That leaves Sasha and Seth, and only one of them is there.

As much as Becky hates getting dressed right out of the shower, she does, choosing a t-shirt and a pair of jeans; now that she's clean, she can smell too many haunting memories on her running clothes, from Seth's blood to her frantic tears to the lingering sharpness of the hospital. As she's putting on her shoes, though, she stops herself. His room is right next door. I don't need shoes. It's a short walk—she can jog over in seconds—and the shoes are just another way to waste time. Kicking them aside, she grabs her keycard and hesitates over Seth's. It would be presumptuous to use it without knocking: he could be on the phone or in the bathroom or. . . . She makes her mind stop there. Sasha might need it, she reasons, leaving Seth's keycard on the entry table and tucking hers in her pocket.

The walk to Seth's door is even shorter than she guessed, leaving her no time to think, and before she knows it her knuckles are rapping against the wood. He must be in the shower, she thinks between the first and second knock. There, Sasha. I tried. Happy now?

Her third knock hits only air as the door opens. Seth's face has a wary set to it, but his eyes brighten when he sees her. "Hey." It's such a short little word, but it traps Becky's attention like a spider's web, and when he steps back to open the door wider, Becky feels herself almost pulled along with it.

As she steps into his room—His parlour, you little fly, she thinks—she randomly regrets being barefoot; it's too comfortable, too familiar. When he shuts the door behind her, she almost jumps at the click of the lock. "How are the drugs?" Becky shuts her eyes and groans. No matter how carefully she crafts what she wants to say in her head, her mouth seems to have different ideas. "Not—I mean. . . ."

Seth gives her a warm smile and it's his genuine one, a little bit lopsided. "I know what you meant." He's clearly just had a shower as well, because his hair is dripping down his shoulders and the towel balled up in his hands is damp. "I'm good. I can feel a bit of a haze, but nothing major. It'll be gone by breakfast. The run helped flush a lot of it from my system."

"That's good." Becky nods jerkily, jamming her hands in her pockets and clutching her keycard like a talisman. "I just thought it might be like a concussion is, you know? Where you shouldn't be alone?" It's ridiculous and she drops her gaze, but her mouth won't stop rambling. "Because of the drugs and whatever. I could keep you company until Sasha gets back if you wanted, but if you're go—"

"Company would be good." Seth's interjection draws her gaze back up just in time to see his flick to the side. "If you're not busy, I mean. Until Sasha gets back."

"No, I'm good." A shiver works its way across Becky's shoulders and she curls her hands into loose fists at her sides. "Can I. . . ." Too cliche, she chastises herself. Asking to see his scar is about as smooth as a teenager asking her boyfriend to come to her room to see her new poster. "How's your neck?" she asks instead. "It was looking pretty good when you were a wolf. . . ."

"I think it's good." Then it's Seth's turn to pause, but he doesn't look nearly as indecisive as Becky feels. "If you don't mind, you could check it out for me. I forgot to turn on the fan in the bathroom, so the mirror was all fogged up."

A nervous laugh bubbles up Becky's throat, but she masks it with a cough as she steps closer. Seth's shoulders are wet from his hair and his chest is still a bit damp too; his waistband is skewed, as if he pulled his shorts on in a hurry to get the door. "Sure." She goes on tiptoe and pauses just before her hand grips his chin. "Just . . . tilt to the side a bit?" He obliges, his beard brushing against her fingers since she hasn't moved her hand yet. "A little more. Or does it hurt to stretch it?"

Seth starts to shake his head, but then forces himself to stay still. "It doesn't really hurt. You know how it is. I can feel a bit of strain, so I know something's not normal."

Becky knows she should be using one hand to balance herself, but that would mean touching his shoulder or his chest, and his face seems safer at the moment. It's hard to keep her fingers from stroking his beard, though, and she has to force her mind to stay focussed on his shoulder. She's seen patches of beard burn on Sasha's skin when she's come back from being with Seth, and Becky can't deny being curious. "Let me know if it starts hurting." With her free hand, she examines Seth's stretched neck. Aside from a long patch of skin that's a bit darker than the rest, the wound has healed completely. Becky runs her thumb along its edges and, when Seth doesn't complain, digs in a little bit with her fingers. "It's almost done healing," she reports. "Still a bit hot, but that will fade." Her fingertips run back and forth over the vanishing scar, intrigued by the difference in the texture.

"Your hands are cold." Seth is so close to her ear that even his whisper is startling, and he grabs Becky's waist to steady her. "But it feels nice."

"I'm glad—that it's feeling better." She hopes she corrected herself quickly enough. "It looked so bad out in the forest." Maybe it's the warmth radiating from Seth's chest. Maybe it's his steady pulse, curling around hers like a vine. Maybe it's simply that she can't see his annoyingly unfathomable eyes since she's looking at his shoulder. Whatever it is, it makes it easier to be honest. Even though her feet are starting to ache, she rests her forehead on his shoulder and lets out a ragged breath. "I was so worried."

"I was fine. Because of you." He wraps his arms around her and hugs her close, burying his face in her hair. "It was too dangerous to change back so quickly. You could have broken something or—"

"You could have bled out or—" Becky won't let herself even think anything worse, let alone say it. Instead, fortified by Seth's arms, she kisses his wound softly. The muscles in his shoulders seem to melt under her fingers. "I don't think I've ever been that scared before." This could go on for hours, she knows. She's cuddled with Seth before or with him and Sasha together; she could do that now, waiting until Sasha returns. But then Sasha's words start to echo in her head: Do you really want to have regrets over Seth?

Becky's had plenty of insults and slights hurled her way over the years, but hardly anyone has accused her of being a coward. She left Ireland as a teenager to follow her dream and threw herself into wrestling with all her heart. She followed that dream around the world until she thought she couldn't any longer and even then, in ways so subtle she didn't even realize it until much later, she tried to piece it together like a patchwork quilt to keep her spirit warm. What would that girl think of a bloody grown woman who can't even tell a guy she likes him?

The thought of being bitched out by her teenage self is so absurd that Becky laughs, making Seth raise his head with what sounds like a groan of reluctance. "Becks, what—?"

Just kiss him already. It's Sasha's voice and Charlotte's voice and Becky's teenage voice, but most importantly, it's her inner voice, clear and strong at last. Seth's surprise made him loosen his arms just the slightest bit—just enough for her to move back, and so Becky does, cupping his face in both hands and kissing him.

Becky's done hard things before and easy things, the right thing and often the wrong thing, but she can't remember ever doing anything that felt like everything all at once. Not until now.