Chapter 20

Thorn

A wareness creeps back into my body like a slowly rolling fog.

I know that time has passed since the bear attack, time that moved thick with anguished torment, nightmares that blended to reality, years of my life that I passed through too quickly to hold onto anything, that I watched from above like an immovable tree.

The pain was always there, spearing through my chest, burning up my arm, an inescapable heat that scalded me as if my very blood was on fire.

At times, I had waited for death with bated breath, waiting for the end of the agony and the flames, and at other times I fought it with every last cell in my body, fearful of the expansive darkness ahead.

And there was Samara, always, a fixture of comfort during my illness.

Her soft hand over my cheek and brow, cold water being applied to my hot neck, my parched lips, her voice and the warmth of her body near mine yet always just out of reach.

My memories of my illness are foggy, and I cannot tell where dream and reality blend together. There were times I thought she had left me, finally abandoned me to die in the forest, and I had felt relief and crushing loneliness, yet there are memories too of promises and prayers she spoke into my ear in darkness, of her presence around me as constant as the stars in the sky or the ground under my feet during a hunt.

She did not leave me.

I know this with every bone in my body. Yet I had been fearful that she would, fearful that I would die alone, fearful that I would crumble back into the earth and leave behind nothing but an unhappy legacy with my female and my tribe.

I do not know whether, in my weakened state, I spoke these worries aloud or not.

But I know that she stayed nonetheless.

It is…deeply uncomfortable to know that I relied on her, that she had cared for me with patience and tenderness and that I had been utterly helpless. There is nothing more shameful for a male to be than useless, and the fact that I might have been fills me with icy cold mortification.

I will spend the rest of my life in an effort to repay her, to take care of her, to provide for her so that she will never know the burden of caring for me again.

This resolve hardens in my mind as I begin to make sense of my position and my surroundings.

I lie on my back, my chest and arm bound tightly and a thin sheen of sweat collecting on the back of my neck as a result.

My body feels thick, sluggish, a foreign feeling of floating between wakefulness and sleep, my limbs heavy and my wounds pounding with strange numbness. My tongue is thick in my dry mouth, and my stomach aches with emptiness.

It has been many days since the attack.

There are furs over me, and a small, still body pressed against mine whose feminine smell immediately calls to me.

My chest pulls with tightness, with the need to see her and feel her beneath my hands and survey her wellness. It is what finally pushes me past the brink of waking, and my sore eyes blink open to a dark sky.

It takes some effort to turn my head, but I do, and from the glow of a nearby fire I can see Samara curled beside me, her hand over the base of my neck, fingers outstretched, as though she monitors my heartbeat.

She is deeply asleep, her breath slow and deep and her body unmoving.

My chest tugs with a feeling far deeper than any claws could have reached, and I lift my good hand from being stuck between us, the angle allowing me to brush the back of my fingers up her arm and against her little chin.

I will never make it up to her, I think with an aching heart and a hard breath, but I will never stop trying.

As my eyes adjust to the light, I take note of the mess of her hair, loose from old braids and knotted around the crown of her head.

Her face is hollow and drawn, with deep purple bruises beneath her fluttering eyelashes and under her cheekbones. She looks thinner, and exhaustion lines her delicate features.

For a moment, I revel in the feel of her against me, the relief that we survived the attack and the warmth between us.

I wonder if she has forgiven me, now that she does not sleep far away, or if this is simply to check on me through my illness.

We have much to discuss when she wakes, so I waste long moments watching her sleep and inhaling her scent deep into my lungs, holding it there for as long as I can.

Nearby, the sound of footsteps tears my attention away from the female, and I glance up to see a figure enter the camp.

My nerves are strung tight, and panic explodes through my chest as I recognize the face of the man who crouches now beside the fire to add more wood.

In a sudden instant of blooming horror, I take in the camp around us, the grey coat on the furs over me and Samara that are from a northern wolf, the way that the fire is built to fend of snow as well as wind, the familiar tarp that is slung over branches nearby in a shelter, the skewers of meat drying on the rocks piled around the fire.

These are not the trappings of my tribe, and they are not the belongings of me or Samara.

I recognize them in an instant, just as I know exactly who the man is.

Adrenaline coursing through my body, I leap up from my position and reach for my knives. There is nothing nearby, my pack gone, so I fight through blinding pain and put myself before Samara.

Hawk looks up in shock, and behind me, the female rouses from sleep and yelps.

"Thorn!" She grasps at my bare shoulder, her voice high and panicked. "What the hell are you doing?"

I moved very quickly, after days of illness and injury, and now the world swims in my vision, threatening to drag me back to unconsciousness.

Terror strikes my heart, terror that I might faint, and that Hawk will be left alone with my Samara.

"I am…" I fight through hard waves of nausea, stumbling in my defensive position and having to put out a hand to steady myself, "protecting you… I will not let him come near."

"Jesus Christ," Samara curses behind me, and her hands become forceful in their attempt to hold me back.

Is she trying to take on Hawk along with me like she did with the bear? My mind reels. It is hard to get a grasp on any thought with such heady panic and dizziness thickening my mind.

She assumes a fierce tone, "Lie down, you idiot, he's not going to hurt me."

"Do not fear, brother," Hawk interrupts. "Your female speaks the truth."

I blink through the blistering rage and black spots that cloud my vision, snarling, "Do not call me brother!"

"Thorn," Samara comes before me, standing in front so that her furious face blocks my sight of Hawk. "Enough. Lie down before you reopen all your stitches. We've camped for three days with Hawk. I think if he was going to hurt me, he'd have done it all ready."

Swallowing thickly past the pull of unconsciousness, I falter. "Three…days?"

"Yes," Hawk cuts out. "In fact, I cared for your female while you could not. You could do to be more grateful."

Samara bristles, and jerks her head over her shoulder to bite out, "Hawk, why don't you make yourself useful and take a walk? Maybe hunt something. Give Thorn some time to adjust."

With a sigh, he rises from the fire and takes off into the woods. Once he is out of sight, the tension drains from my body.

I am not proud of it, but I collapse half against Samara and half against my own arm, which is the only thing that keeps me from pitching forward. I allow her to push me back against the furs and fuss over me. Lying down once more, I get a stronger hold on wakefulness, and the roiling sickness in my belly quiets.

"My knife-"

"You don't need it," Samara cuts me off, and her hands are far gentler than her dark expression as she lifts the wrappings around my chest and looks at my wounds. "You didn't open my stitches, thank god. I would've strangled you."

This I know is a saying, a fact further cemented by the concern in her eyes as she meets my gaze. I capture one of her hands with my good one, stilling her. "Samara…How long has it been since the attack?"

She purses her lips and counts in her mind for a moment before answering, "About a week and a half. Do you remember any of it?"

I shake my head. "You cared for me all this time? On your own?"

Her face softens, mingling tenderness and old worry and pain. Her discomfort hurts me too, seeing the wound my illness had on her heart, and I tighten my grip on her hand.

I do not know how long I have until she pulls away from me.

Her voice is choked with emotion when she says, "Of course I did. Just because I was angry doesn't mean that I don't care about you, Thorn. Or that I'd leave you to die."

"Brave, strong Samara," I praise her, releasing her hand so that I can cup her face, tend to her as she has tended to me for so many days. "I will not shout at you for putting me before yourself. You should have left me. It troubles me that you put yourself at risk."

Samara surprises me with a shocked little laugh. "I never thought I'd be relieved to hear you bossing me around again."

Her eyes suddenly, despite her mirth, brim with tears.

I have worried for Samara, I have felt primal, gut-clenching fear that she would be mauled by a bear, that she would starve or get lost without me, but even I cannot imagine watching her slowly succumb to sickness for days, fighting nature itself to keep her alive.

I put my thumb to the fringe of her lower lashes, catching the droplet of her tear before it can fall on her cheek.

"Ah, little female," my heart tugs painfully. It is agony alone just to see how distraught she is over nearly losing me. Yet hope flutters between my ribs like a caught bird. Does she care? Will she be able to forgive me? "I will never be able to repay you."

"Don't repay me," she sniffles. "Just don't ever do that again. Don't scare me like that, okay?"

"I will not," I vow. "I am sorry to have worried you."

Samara cups my hand against her face and turns to press a kiss to my open palm. I feel the tender press of her lips all the way through my weakened body, and my skin tingles with awareness. Lust unfurls through me, hunger that gnaws my belly far more urgent than the desire to eat or drink.

Even half-dead, her touch awakens my desire with a fierce ache.

"Come here," my voice is suddenly gruff, and I gently tug at our joined hands to bring her close. "Please…"

Samara leans down, but she is hesitant, and her awareness of my injuries seems to stop her from lying against me. Instead, she hovers over, and the curtain of her wild curls tickles my jaw and collarbone.

"God…Thorn," she whispers. Her enticing smell folds around me, and I wrap my good arm around her waist to secure her to my side. I feel starved of her touch, her nearness. Her lashes are wet with unshed tears, "My heart stopped when I pulled you out from under the bear. I don't think it beat the whole time you were sick."

I lift my bad arm, ignoring the bolt of pain that carries all the way up to my jaw, and place my fingers against her throat, where her pulse greets me in heavy, deep pumps.

My arm is wrapped all the way to the knuckles, but there is enough feeling in my fingertips to note her heartbeat and to enjoy the warmth of her deep skin.

"I can feel it now," I tell her, and the reminder of her life, her strength, soothes the ache of worry in my chest. Still, it tears at me to see her misery, and the sight of her tears quiets my lust. She needs me to remind her I am well, that I am healing and that I will never leave her again. "It beats strong."

"For you," Samara breathes, as if these words are so honest, so fragile, that they are difficult to say. I release a hard breath at the sincerity in her words.

I feel that it is the opposite, that by saving me and nurturing me she has trained all of my blood and bones and flesh to respond to her, to yearn for her, to live only for her.

I have always wanted her, I have always watched her with longing, yet it was nothing compared to how I feel now.

"You will never know how sorry I am to have lied to you, how sickening it is to know that I broke your trust. I should have never kept the truth from you, of all people, my Samara." Her nearness gives me hope, and I cannot help but ask, "Do you think you will forgive me… in time?"

I am breathing hard, gripping her to my side with all of my remaining strength, waiting for her anger.

Instead, a smile plays on her beautiful face. "I think fighting a bear makes for a good apology."

I grin back at her. "It is only a start."