“H-how did you do that?” My voice breaks from the sheer relief of it.
“It’s a wolf thing,” he says as if it’s nothing.
“So all wolves can do it?” I ask.
He shrugs. “No, not exactly. Only alphas are sometimes born with special gifts.”
I close my eyes and let the heat take me.
Before I can stop it, a sob escapes, ripping free from the depths of my soul. With tears streaming down my face, grief and gratitude merge into a storm of emotion I haven't let myself feel in so long.
“Come here,” Declan says.
There are no words, and I can't stop what's swelling up inside of me, so when Declan pulls me into his arms, wrapping his muscular arms around me, I let him.
“It’s all right,” he whispers.
My head nuzzled into his neck, our chests pressed together, my legs awkwardly intertwined with his on the dirty dungeon floor, I release all the pain I've been hoarding in my soul for the last six months. Or really, for longer than that. Since my parents died, leaving Estelle and me orphaned.
He holds me tight, and I feel safe for the first time in so long, which is the ultimate irony given where we are. And all that he’s warned me about.
My tears sizzle on his heated skin, but he doesn't seem to mind.
As my sobs subside, I pull back enough to look at him.
His smile is sad, but sincere. “What would your life look like right now?”
I tilt my head and think about what I left, and of course the act of focusing on his question has calmed me, just as he planned. “I’d be studying art, buying baked goods from bakeries less wonderful than yours,” I say with a nudge.
Just as he's about to respond, we hear the door at the end of the hall rattle. There’s a click as the first of the locks slide free, and he stiffens, his eyes widening in alarm.
"Get back to your cell. Now. If they know what you can do, they will hurt you."
I hesitate, my brain working slowly to process his words.
He pulls my face towards him and kisses my lips roughly, leaving them burning and aching for more. "Go!"
This snaps me out of my grief-stricken trance, and I stand and pull his door closed softly as I leave. The lock engages automatically and I turn, hurrying back to my own cell and closing it just as Nurse Slap-happy comes clicking down the hall in her overly loud shoes.
Declan hurries to Dean’s bedside and begins shaking him awake. I watch, stunned, as I recover from our rushed kiss. My lips still tingle as I try to put it aside and focus on the moment.
The nurse glances at Declan and seems surprised that he's in human form.
Take that, trou du cul, I think as she swings her attention my way.
"It is time for group therapy," she says. "Both of you are to come with me."
Declan stands to face her. "I'm not leaving Dean like this."
She turns to glare at him. "You will come or pay for it."
From behind Declan, I see Dean rise from his bed slowly. "No worries, mate," he says softly, his voice barely a whisper. "I can come too. I'm fine."
Declan scoffs at that, but Dean holds up a hand. "Brother, let's just go. Together."
It's the last word that seems to get to Declan, who nods roughly.
The nurse from hell opens my door first, then moves to unlock the twins. The boys fall into step behind Nurse Schmidt, putting themselves between her and me. Dean moves the slowest, and I want to reach for him, to help heal him like I did Declan, but not while the evil nurse is watching.
I stay close to the twins as we follow her down the dark path and up all the stairs. The other cells are empty as we pass, and I think of the hungry boy who grabbed me before. Was he real too? Will he be in therapy with us?
At the landing, Declan helps Dean when he stumbles, and I position myself on the other side to offer whatever aid I can if needed.
When Dean wobbles and nearly falls again, I slip an arm around his waist, and my hand grazes Declan's, who's also supporting him. We lock gazes and his fingers caress mine the rest of the way, the heat of his touch keeping the chill from penetrating me too deeply.
We are brought to the large room Dr. Livingstone showed me earlier. It’s been rearranged with chairs and tables to one side and rows of art easels set up side by side on the other.
There's a young girl behind one easel already painting. She looks about ten, but she's so thin and pale I wonder if she's actually older and just severely malnourished. When she glances over at us, I flinch. There are dark circles under her hazel eyes, and her cheeks are sunken in. Her smile is so sad I almost cry.
At one of the tables to the right are two patients playing a game of chess, but based on their moves, they either don't understand how to play the game, or they’re making up their own rules.
I recognize one of them from my escape attempt with Estelle. Angus. After nearly convincing myself the entire thing was just a dream, I’m startled to see him here.
His gaze sweeps over the boys and then settles on me.
“Good choice,” he says, winking, and I glance away quickly, thinking of Declan’s mouth against mine.
His opponent is a woman I’ve never seen before. Her dark, wild hair looks as if it hasn't seen a brush in years, but she doesn't seem to care. She grunts at the board, eyes never wavering, always assessing. When she lifts her arm to move a piece, I see that she’s missing a finger.
Nurse Schmidt grunts at us to enter while she remains like a sentry near the door.
I help Declan take Dean to a chair as far from everyone else as possible and ease him into it. We sit on either side of him.
"Merde, you look awful," I say softly.
Dean smiles. "You're as beautiful as always."
I scoff at that. "This place doesn't exactly provide my preferred skin care routine."
This inspires a soft chuckle from Dean, and Declan looks grateful to see his brother a bit more responsive.
"What do we do now?" I ask.
But I needn't have voiced the question. At that moment, a very tall, very thin man walks in with a scowl on his face. "Get to your places," he says with so much condescension I nearly choke on it. "It's time to do art."
Declan frowns, and I'm trying to figure out why this feels like such a threat.
Dean stands slowly, shaking his head at the offer of help, and we each take easels near one another.
"What's going on?" I whisper to Declan.
"Just do what he says, and whatever you do, don't improvise."
“Improvise?” I ask, but the rest of my words are strangled as I take in the scene set before the group.
Up front, where a model or subject would normally sit, rivers of crimson blood pool around a body lying prone and motionless on the hard floor. A wound, deep and bloody, mars the victim’s chest, but that’s not what sends me reeling. It’s his face. The recognition—and the grief I feel at seeing him like this.
My paint brush slips from my fingers.
For a moment, I’m propelled by the need to intervene—to save him from his injuries. But in the next breath, I know it’s too late.
Some unexplainable part of me, intuition maybe, knows he’s too far gone.
Dr. Livingstone is dead—and we are meant to paint him.
Holy shit, what kind of art therapy is this? I wonder as my stomach churns with sick disgust.