12. Ava

I liketo think of myself as self-sufficient and independent. I mean, graduating from veterinary school a year early wasn't just a tick on my resume, and opening my own clinic, Creature Comforts, within three years wasn't just a career move. It's my love for pets laced with my peculiar fascination for horror—a genre that somehow delivers just the perfect dose of serotonin to my system.

Anyway, after spending a solid twenty minutes staring at the phone, caught in a whirlpool of anticipation and dread, and with Brody thoughtfully leaving a plate of steaming food outside my door, I decide to let the day drift away. You know, some days you just have to acknowledge as a wash, a canvas smeared with grays, and hit the hay, hoping for a burst of color the next morning.

Or at least, that's the plan. Unfortunately for me, I wake up hours later, disoriented and all out of sorts, like a puzzle with pieces scattered and misplaced. Outside the window, the moon hangs low in the sky. Its slivers of light sneak through the curtains, casting ghostly silhouettes over the room where I never managed to crawl under the covers of the bed or change into the sweats lying forlornly on the chair.

The house feels unnaturally cold, as if an invisible frost has crept through its walls, wrapping its icy fingers around my bones. I slowly sit up in bed, trying to gather my scattered senses like fallen leaves. My ribs ache with a deep, persistent throb, my ankle pulsates to its own stubborn rhythm, and the stitches on my thigh pull tight—all a harsh reminder of my recent ordeal. I tap my phone, and bright white numbers flicker up at me, reading three in the morning—folklore's notorious witching hour, when the veil between worlds is said to be its thinnest.

My gaze drifts to the window and the sliver of moon peeking through, its glow a pale lantern in the dark. Compelled by an unknown force, I toss my legs over the bed, lean forward, and stare out at the vast forest before me. Shrouded in an early morning fog, the yard adopts an ominous ambiance, as if it's a stage set for a spectral play, the shadows the silent actors whispering lines in a language only they understand.

Gripping my crutches, I hobble to the window to peer down, my heart a timid drum in my chest. My eyes, drawn by a primal, magnetic pull, scan the clearing until they land on a shadow that's deeper and darker than all the others, a midnight mystery etched against the night. It stretches across the tree line, lengthening into the night like a dark hand reaching out.

A strange thrill, a cocktail of fear and fascination, ripples up my spine as eyes materialize out of thin air within that darkness. Glowing and reflective, they pierce the night, glaring back at me from the deepest recesses of the darkness. Without a shadow of a doubt, I know it's Ethan. I don't know how, and I don't know why, but it's him. I watch as his form, a silhouette of rippling black fur that seems to extend the shadows, moves toward the house, his gaze never leaving what I'm sure must be me.

He has to be looking at me.

From here, he looks like a fierce beast, a majestic yet daunting creature of the night, all fur, muscles, and sharp teeth. His eyes don't just watch me, though, they see right through me—through every single wall I've ever built around myself, all my misgivings and my past, and all my fears, hopes, and desires.

He truly sees me.

I want to look away, I need to look away, but I don't. Not even as he fluidly shifts from wolf to man, his gaze locking with mine. He watches me with a mix of wildness and human cunning in his eyes as he steps across the dew kissed lawn, stark naked. The moonlight dances on his skin, highlighting the contours of his muscles. Part of me, the part that's still shivering from the night's chill, wants to dissect this transformation and really understand it, yet another part, the one that's all instinct, just wants to dodge his intense, almost predatory gaze. I manage to break the stare first, but not without catching the smug smirk he tosses my way, as if he knows the turmoil he's stirring in me.

I let the blinds snap shut and limp across the room, my mind a whirlwind after what I just saw. My eyes land on the pile of sweats and T-shirts left on the chair. They are far better than Eloise's clothing that I'm currently wearing. In a burst of defiance, I strip down, the cool air raising goose bumps on my skin, and chuck the clothes in a corner. Three shirts stare back at me, each carrying the scent and story of someone I may or may not know. It bugs me. It really shouldn't, but it does.

I hesitantly touch the first one, a well-loved, vintage green T-shirt. The band's logo is barely visible, its colors faded to whispers of their former glory, but I don't dare dwell on it as my fingers drift to the next. It's a loud tie-dye number that just screams Tyler, its vibrant hues and chaotic patterns a glaring contrast to the first. Moving to the last one, I finger the softest black fabric I've ever felt, like touching a shadow turned into silk. Without a second thought, I pull it over my head, feeling the hem caress my thighs just above my knees.

The house is as silent as a crypt. There's no sign of Ethan or the others yet, which probably means I have a window. Despite this nagging notion that I should be under the covers, I tiptoe downstairs. Each creak of the door and tap of my crutches against the floor feels like a blaring announcement of my presence. Stealth mode, this is not.

The kitchen has a sliver of light over the island, throwing long shadows over the cabinets. "If I were a wolf, where would I stash pain meds?" I whisper to myself, then snort at the absurdity. Wolves don't need pain meds. They are all about rapid healing, but humans? That's a whole different story…

I start the hunt. The first cabinet? Cups, their porcelain faces reflecting the dim light. The next? Plates, stacked neatly like silent, ceramic sentinels. And the third? Bowls—too many to count. The fourth cabinet, way up high above the microwave, is a real stretch. I'm on tiptoes, my fingers barely grazing the edge, when a prescription bottle does a free-fall. "Bingo."

I glance around the deserted kitchen and, with a wary nibble of my lip, haul a chair over. The legs scrape softly, and I pause, hoping no one heard. I know climbing on it is the worst idea ever, but desperation has a grip on me, and there's no way I'm hollering for the guys. Besides, I feel like they are mad at me, and I hate that.

I step onto the chair, feeling every bit the rebel, and then onto the counter, my cast adding a whole level of awkward to the mix. I scour the cabinet, my eyes peeled for that telltale red bottle.

"What the hell are you doing?" Ethan's voice cuts through the silence, sharp and disapproving, nearly scaring the life out of me. His figure looms in the doorway, the faint light casting him in a silhouette of rigid authority. I freeze, busted, as the weight of my desperate search starts to sink in.

I know I'm about to take a tumble when my arms start flailing wildly, mimicking a propeller on the fritz. Luckily, unlike last time, the ground doesn't come rushing up to meet me. Instead, strong arms encircle me, their hold firm yet gentle, stopping my descent. My heart drums a frantic beat in my chest as I gaze up into Ethan's face, my hand resting against the heat of his chest—a chest that I pray is covered. I mentally chastise myself. Don't look down. Simple, right? Just don't look.

Then the delayed ache from my near fall blooms, and a small, involuntary whimper betrays my stoic fa?ade.

"Fucking hell, Ava," Ethan snarls, each syllable dripping with frustration. Anger carves deep lines into his rugged, handsome face, yet his grip tightens, as if releasing me might shatter the moment. "What were you thinking?" Without waiting for my answer, he pivots, his movements a dance of controlled power as he strides across the kitchen to the living room and gently deposits me onto the plush couch.

"I need pain meds," I snap out, the comfort of the cushions doing little to soothe my frayed nerves. I'm a cocktail of exhaustion, pain, and irritation.

Ethan shuts his eyes, the muscles in his jaw working as he shakes his head, muttering, "Fragile, stubborn women." The sting of unshed tears builds behind my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. Instead, I clench my jaw and lift my chin with defiance.

"Fuck." He stands abruptly, the fabric of his sweatpants stretching taut, leaving little to the imagination as he storms off. My gaze follows his retreating figure, the broad expanse of his back a testament to his strength, as he rifles through the medicine cabinet, finally grabbing the red pill bottle that holds the promise of relief. He moves to the fridge with a scowl etched on his face, retrieving a soda and a cheese stick before marching back and thrusting the makeshift remedy into my hands.

Swallowing my uncertainty, I accept the meds and the snack, setting them beside me on the small side table. His gaze pins me down as I pop open the soda and pill bottle, slipping two tablets onto my tongue before washing them down with a swig of the fizzy drink.

"Cheese," he commands tersely, his eyes rolling skyward, "so you don't burn a hole in your stomach."

Right. Chastised, I nibble on the cheese stick, feeling a wave of self-consciousness wash over me. Any small adjustment I make on the couch draws another audible expression of annoyance from Ethan.

"Woman," he mutters under his breath, his fingers deftly snatching a blanket from the back of the couch and draping it over me. He then retreats to the farthest corner of the couch, as if distance could douse the tension between us.

"Thanks," I murmur, my voice softer than I intended, the word floating in the charged air between us. "So…"

"Don't," he says with a sharp shake of his head, his voice a low rumble of warning. "Next time, just ask for the meds." He's treating me like a reckless child rather than an injured woman.

"I don't need your permission to take meds for my broken bones," I retort, my patience fraying at the edge.

"Clearly you do, considering you nearly got yourself killed. Again," he counters, his tone laced with a mix of worry and stern admonishment.

"Don't be so dramatic," I scoff, unwilling to admit he might have a point. "I was fine."

"You almost fell. Again," he snaps out, the growl in his voice rising.

Rolling my eyes, I retort, "And you caught me. So what's the big deal?"

"That is not the point," he insists, his voice a blade of ice cutting through the warm air.

That only fuels my determination to stand my ground. "Well, it's not like I'm in my own home. I don't know where you stash the pain meds."

"They aren't stashed," he fires back, his patience unraveling like a frayed rope.

"If they weren't, I wouldn't have needed to climb the chair," I argue, my resolve hardening as I sit up, ready for this verbal duel. He's not getting the last word.

"How the hell did you even get on the chair? I'm amazed you didn't trip over thin air while dragging it," he retorts, sitting up straighter, his eyes darkening with a storm of emotions.

I suppress the urge to make a snarky comeback. "I wouldn't have had to if you goons hadn't kidnapped me," I counter, the fire in my belly igniting.

"Kidnapped you?" he echoes, incredulity painting his features.

"Yes, kidnapped me," I state, crossing my arms, feeling a fiery resolve simmering within.

"Maybe we kidnapped you to keep you alive, because clearly you're a hazard to yourself," he counters, his voice a mix of sarcasm and genuine concern.

"Oh, please. Not everyone is as nimble as a wolf," I retort, refusing to give an inch.

"Well, perhaps you should work on that. Unless you enjoy being helpless," he suggests, a challenging glint in his eye.

That does it. I see red, and I'm going to kill him.