Midnight Wolves

Chapter Fifteen: Fragment

Callie woke to loud breathing in her ear and her face buried in a stranger's chest.

It was, as it turns out, the first time she'd woken up like this since Caleb. Which made it all the more disorientating when, rather than Caleb's youthful, trusting face, she leaned back to be greeted by a mop of black hair and a jagged scar.

She pushed against the grip he still held on her waist, even if at some point in the night he'd loosened it long enough for her to turn over in his arms, but he wouldn't budge.

She sighed irritably and shoved his arm again. He didn't move, didn't wake. It was only then that she noticed the wet patch on his chest and the dampness against her shoulder. He was still bleeding.

She shoved again, harder this time, and his grip slipped, sending him twisting onto his back. She loomed over him, balancing on one arm as she gripped his face and tried to wake him.

"Damn it, midnight. Wake up!" she cursed, as she shook his shoulders. The loud breathing had stopped and the rhythm changed from the long exhales to shorter, sharper bursts. Sweat beaded on his forehead and when she placed her hand against it, she hissed at the heat.

He had a fever, that was good, that meant his body was trying to heal. But, the wound was still bleeding which meant that even if he'd tried to dig out the silver bullet, he either hadn't done a great job or had missed a bit.

"Midnight, wake up!" she demanded, pulling herself on to her knees, her voice desperate.

No response.

Callie cursed again and eyed the door. Rolling her eyes, she carefully put her hand in his pocket to locate the key. Slipping from the bed, she undid the door and went straight to the kitchen cabinet where she'd seen him put the medical kit. At the same time, she grabbed a bowl of warm water, a bottle of whisky she found in the cupboard under the sink and a cloth that, although not entirely clean, would suffice.

Heading back into the bedroom, she placed her equipment onto the bedside table before looking down at the wolf. "I really hope this isn't your favourite shirt," she said softly before tearing the material, using her claw to split it easily.

She eyed the wound. It was still bleeding and hadn't even tried to heal. Taking the cloth and rinsing it in the bowl of water, she wiped away as much of the blood as she could until both her hands and the cloth were dyed red.

Next, she searched through the medical kit until she found a small pair of metal tweezers. Looking around the room, she spotted the light switch and flipped it on, waiting for the bulb to glow brightly.

"This is gonna hurt, midnight," she said apologetically.

Dousing the tweezers in whisky, she hovered over the wound and took a deep, calming breath, before pushing them into it and carefully opening them until she could see inside.

Glad she wasn't queasy around blood, she searched as carefully as she could for any sign of the silver bullet. And sure enough, there it was. Not the full bullet, he must have dug that out himself, no, a fragment. A tiny fleck that was the difference between life and death for any wolf.

She delicately extracted it, relief flooding her as she dropped it onto the bedside cabinet.

Grabbing the whisky, she poured it over the wound, more for good luck than anything else, before taking a long swig from the bottle. "One for you, one for me," she said, trying to pretend she was in control of this situation. She turned, grabbing some gauze from the medical kit and holding it over the wound.

It was an hour later, after she'd finished cleaning his chest, the bed, the bedside cabinet and herself, that she realised she could have run. He'd been unconscious and she could have immediately escaped.

She could still run. This was her chance to escape. She knew she'd had no obligation to help the wolf who'd cuffed her in silver and then held her against him all night. She owed him nothing. She could run. Probably even should run.

But, as she sat beside the bed on a small chair she'd dragged in from the kitchen, she knew she couldn't leave, not yet. Not until she was sure he was OK. Not until he regained his strength.

She told herself it was because she didn't trust her uncle not to use this opportunity to come and kill him.

But even she knew she was lying.