52

W esley slept most of the day. I had avoided telling him that Koen and Clay had gone on another hunt outside of town. Urgent enough that Clay woke Koen up in the middle of the night. He had fallen asleep before the sun went down, tucked into one of the rooms with the curtains drawn. His arms instinctively reached for me as I curled into the bed next to him.

“Can’t it wait?” I asked Clay who shook his head.

“ Wendigos don’t wait, they just kill.”

That had Koen out of bed, not saying a word to either of us as he dressed in clean clothes before following Clay out the front door.

The information would have led to unnecessary stress and he needed to spend all of his time healing. The conversation hadn’t gone as horribly as I had braced for. He seemed a little kinder when he couldn’t storm off in a huff after provoking an argument.

He had let me feed him almost three whole bowls of soup and fell asleep on a drool-covered pillow as I finished my tea in silence. I knew he wasn’t comfortable with me; that wouldn’t happen any time soon, but it was nice to have a moment with him when he wasn’t actively trying to relieve me of my head.

There was an odd sense of peace while he slept. His angry features softened in the dreary afternoon light that peaked through the cracks in the curtains. He had eaten a fair amount and, I wasn’t entirely sure, but he may have even cracked a smile.

“Do you just lurk around all day?” He asked me, eyes still closed.

His face contorted in pain as he shifted in his bed.

“If I was in another part of the Manor I wouldn’t be able to hear you if you needed help,” I answered from my chair.

One hazel eye opened and stared me down in question.

“You slept through dinner,” I told him.

“And I still feel like shite,” Wesley groaned and pushed himself up into a sitting position. The blanket fell around his waist, exposing the hard lines of his biceps and the contradicting soft expanse of his stomach. Usually, his golden curls were swept back off his face but, in the skirmish of homebrewed surgery and restless sleep, they had become unruly and stuck out every which way.

It made him look innocent. Something we both knew he wasn’t.

“And you still look it,” I shot back at him. I found that communicating with Wesley, if it could be considered communicating, was easier if I met him at his level. His brows raised up at me in surprise, but I could see a twinkle of humor in his eyes.

“Are you hungry again?” I asked.

“I don’t want any more soup,” he snapped and flipped the blankets back. “I need to move. If I lay there any longer I’m going to get bed rot.”

“Are you able?”

The look he tossed over his shoulder was murderous.

“You seem to have forgotten you have a deep, severe tear in your thigh. It will make it difficult for you to move around unaided.” I didn’t back down from him. I spent the first half of my life cowering under the shadows of tempermental men like Wesley, and worse. I was not about to go back to that now, here, in my own home.

“I can walk,” he argued, hazel eyes glaring at me as he pushed off the bed with one hand, toppling against the post and wrapping his hand tightly around it to keep his balance. “Don’t you have a curse to put on someone or a puppy to kill?”

“I only kill fully grown men with prickly attitudes that lack manners,” I responded, my voice dripping in sarcasm. “Curses take too much time.”

“ Please , leave me the fuck alone,” he said.

I scowled at him, hating how easily dismissed he thought I was. Swallowing the annoyance, I excused myself as he struggled to enter the bathroom. A petty smile touched my lips as I heard the sound of crashing and a string of creative curses from beyond the door.

It would have been easier if he had been less pigheaded but I had a feeling that being cooperative wasn’t something Wesley could do. He was so set on hating me and what he believed I was that he refused to do what was best for himself and his recovery. I found myself in the kitchen making him food regardless of the stubborn behavior, and was annoyed at myself for it.

The fowl in the oven smelled suitable and, for the first time in a long time, I wished that I was hungry. I chewed on my lip as I cut carrots, wondering what might happen if I cut off a limb. But that was just Wesley in my head, polluting my thoughts with scenarios I’d already run.

I hover the knife over my hand, contemplating it. I could live without a finger if it didn’t grow back, and maybe it would quell the fear that I was indeed a monster.

The window in the Manor blew open and a tickle of air brushed against my jaw and throat, almost encouraging violence. I froze and waited for the Manor to settle.

A knock at the door cut short the next wave of morbid hypothesizing. I set the knife down in panic. In all of my time spent wandering around the Manor, never once had anyone knocked on the door. Not once. I stared at the knife for a second, contemplating leaving it behind only a moment before I huffed and picked it back up. I made my way toward the front door with it clutched in my fist, and tucked behind my apron inconspicuously.

“Don’t open it,” Wesley said from the top of the stairs; he leaned over the railing with his gun gripped in his hand, breathing heavily and bearing his whole weight on the bannister.

“You shouldn’t be out of bed.” I looked up at him and his eyes dropped to the hidden knife in my hand. “It’s probably nothing.”

“That’s why you’re armed.” Wesley started to limp down the stairs, using the railing to hold him upright. His face crumpled into a tight expression as he hit the main floor unevenly. “Open the door slowly,” he instructed as he pressed himself against the wall. He was out of breath and blood had started to seep through his sweatpants. “And give me that.” He put his hand out, palm up for the knife, but I shook my head.

”It’s probably nothing,” he mocked and shook his hand at me again.

“Fine.” I hand him the knife by the handle and straighten my skirt before opening the door. “Hello,” I greet the man behind it, eyes tracing over his county uniform. Tight, tense nerves rolled through me and I resisted the urge to look at Wesley for guidance. “Can I help you, Constable?”

Wesley took a shaky breath beside me just out of view. I had said something wrong.

The man before me was tall with ruddy features and dark eyes. He was wearing a constables uniform and his hand rested gently on his weapon. His beady eyes trailed down my person, lingering on my chest and curves. It filled my throat with bile and made me want to shield myself from his gaze. But that wasn’t the only feeling clawing at me…

Something was wrong with the man. A darkness oozed from him into the air and made it hard to breathe. The Manor practically hissed in response. My stance became shaky under his sinister stare, and my shoulders dropped as I made to step back away from him. I was scared of the unknown and suddenly felt much smaller than usual.

“Don’t cower,” Wesley whispered, his voice so low I barely heard it.

I pinned my shoulders back at his warning and stepped closer to the door, closer to Wesley. I leaned against the wood and felt Wesley’s warm breath fan across my shoulder.

“Good evening, ma’am, I’m Sergeant Allen.” He extended his other hand to me, and Wesley tensed, waiting for me to shake it.

“Florence Cabot.” I offered him my name.

“Mrs. Cab–”

“Miss,” I corrected him.

“Miss.” He started again. “We’re canvasing the outer-lying homes of the community for any information you may have on a group of men involved in a triple homicide. If you’ve seen them, I urge you to share any information you may have on them. They are extremely dangerous and without a moral code. We’d appreciate any help with the matter.”

“A triple homicide?” I asked, trying to appear meek and confused.

“They killed three officers, Miss,” he explained, stepping forward toward the threshold. “We’re to believe the suspects are still in the area and armed. They’re driving a dirty, white Bronco.”

He goes on to give me their descriptions and it's clear that they’re looking for Wesley, Clay, and Koen. But there was something off about the officer in front of me. His distant, cold stare made my skin itch uncomfortably. I held my hands behind my back and knotted them together to keep them from shaking. He watched me with caution, his curiosity growing with each passing moment.

“I haven’t seen them or the vehicle you’ve described. I’m sorry I can’t be of more help,” I responded with a subdued tone.

“Are you sure?” He asked.

I nodded politely, flinching when he dug in his pocket. I felt Wesley step forward, his hand brushing against my side. This was the closest he had been by choice.

“My card.” He extended a piece of white paper and I unfolded my hands to take it. “If you see them, don’t open your doors to them. Call that number immediately and we’ll come. Thank you for your time, Miss Cabot.” He nodded at me, eyes lingering just a little on my chest as he backed away.

As he stepped off the steps, I closed the door and let out the breath I was holding in the form of a gasped sob. Wesley stayed where he was, using the wall as support while he watched me.

“You have to breathe,” he demanded but the cut to his tone was encouraging. “He didn’t buy your bullshit. He’s not leaving.”

“What?” I turned to look at him with panic shaking in my voice.

“Time to be a monster,” he said, darkness engulfing his hazel eyes.

I could tell him that if the sergeant did indeed mean to harm me, the Manor would likely take care of it. But lately it felt like the walls weren’t on my side. Ever since the night with Clay, I had been victim to micro-aggressions, dark thoughts slipping in and out of my consciousness urging me to hurt myself or worse. It subtly punished me, thinking I wouldn’t notice, but I had. It wanted me to behave but it was hard when I was now being pulled in different directions.

“Hey!” Wesley barked when I didn’t answer his muffled first question. “Pay attention. How many entrances are there to this place?” Wesley asked, hobbling forward and clicking the front shut.

“The kitchen, the back leading out to the yard, one in the conservatory, and a side servant entrance. Why?” I inhaled shallow breaths that did nothing to slow my racing heart.

“Close the kitchen and the back,” he ordered, shoving the knife at me. “And go quickly.”

“What about the side?” I asked, staring down at the blade.

“Let him think he’s got you trapped,” Wesley explained. “A false sense of confidence will make him sloppy.”

“You’re being vague.” My voice shook as I took the knife from him and gripped it in my sweaty hand.

“It’s simple. You’re going to have to fight.” He looked at me as he stumbled to the sitting room.