Captive of Wolves (Bound to the Fae #1) - Eva Chase Page 0,117

stay in the peaceful images conjured in my head, though. Not if I want to see this task through.

The pain eases but doesn’t disappear. As I fumble for another rag to tie around my thumb as a bandage, stinging jolts keep radiating through my hand. The rag I’ll use to offer the wolf his cure is streaked with plenty of blood now, so at least I’ve got that part of the plan thoroughly covered. I can’t imagine it won’t be enough.

I just have to get the cloth into the creature’s mouth. A raging, ravenous creature that sounds ready to slaughter the walls themselves if it could. No big deal.

A slightly hysterical laugh spills from my lips. It’s either that or give in to the urge to sob.

My pulse races faster with each step I take toward the front hall. Halfway there, I have to stop and catch my breath, fighting the terror constricting my lungs.

I can do this. Just one taste of the blood on this rag, and the beast on the other side of the door will be himself again.

I stop at the sliding barrier and listen. A low growl reverberates through the room beyond. The grating sound of claws against wood paints a picture of the massive wolf stalking back and forth, pacing with frustration.

If I simply toss the rag in there, will he even bother with it? One little scrap of cloth isn’t likely to interest or enrage him. In this wild state, he’s seeking out a real fight.

A sense of understanding settles over me. I have to make sure he sees me. That he comes this way with enough aggression that he’ll snap up the cloth when I throw it. Once it’s in his mouth, I’ll be safe again. There’s no reason that tactic shouldn’t work.

But there’s no reason to assume I’ll pull it off exactly as I’m picturing it either.

At the thought of the ferocious monster in the hall charging at me, another wave of panic smacks into me, leaving me dizzy. My fingers curl around the bloody rag. I brace myself against the door, gulping for air and willing back the images flooding my mind, the shivers wracking my limbs.

It would be so easy to scurry back up to my bedroom, throw the bolts, and curl up in bed until morning. No one expects anything more than that from me; no one would blame me for it.

No, that’s not true. I expect more. I would blame me.

I’m here. I’ve done everything I need to except face the beast. How many battles have these men already fought for me?

If they’re going to keep me safe, nurture me, and stand up for me, then I’ve got to find a way to stand with them.

As the seconds slip by, I drag breath after breath into my lungs. When the images from my attack flash through my mind, I train all my awareness not on landscapes I’ve never visited outside of my imagination but on the very real times when the men I mean to help kept me safe. August offering me the pouch of salt. Sylas nestling me against his chest. Whitt hugging me to him, murmuring soothing words to drown out the snarls of a fight.

Gradually, my chest loosens. Each breath courses deeper than the last. The violent images of the past dwindle, and then it’s just me in the hall, one hand flat against the wooden barrier and the other clutched around a bloody rag.

Despite everything my former captors put me through, I haven’t been broken. I’m still alive. I’m still living. Nothing they did can stop me now.

My heart continues pounding against my ribs, but I focus on the movement of my free hand: raising it to twist the highest lock open, and then dropping it to the next, and the next, and the next. As I reach the last one at the bottom, my arm trembles. I inhale once more, long and steady, and turn the tumbler over.

There’s no sound on the other side of the barrier. Has the wolf heard the click of the locks? What’s it doing now?

Only one way to find out.

Before my fear can paralyze me again, I give the sliding door a forceful yank. It’s heavy enough that even that effort opens a gap of mere inches. But inches is enough.

Orbs glow amber in the hall on the other side—except for one that lies shattered on the floorboards. Floorboards mottled with gouges from brutal claws. And the source