His face had lost its perfect symmetry. Its lines, so sharply defined before, had thickened and grown harsher. His features gained a rough hardness, and from the top of his mouth to his hairline, his face seemed slightly uneven, as if the shattered bones of his skull didn't quite mesh. Before if he walked into a rough bar, someone would whistle and tell him he was too pretty. Now people would stare into their drinks and whisper to one another, "Here's a guy who's been through some bad shit."
He looked up. Dark velvet eyes regarded me. Usually a hint of sly humor hid there behind the solemn composure of a Pack wolf. It was gone now.
"Hi, Kate."
His lips moved but it took me a second to connect the low, raspy voice with Derek's mouth.
"Damaged vocal cords?" I asked.
He nodded.
"It's permanent," Doolittle said softly. He stepped out of the room and closed the door. It was me and Derek now.
I perched on the side of the bed. "You sound like you kill people for a living," I told him.
"I look like it, too." He smiled. The effect was chilling.
"Is there a spot on you that's safe to punch?"
"Depends on who'll be doing the punching."
"Me."
Derek winced. "Then no."
"Are you sure? I have a lot of baggage to release from the past couple of days." My voice was breaking. I struggled for control.
"Positive."
All of my guilt, all of my worry, all the anxiety and pain and regret, everything I had carefully packaged and stuffed away into the deepest recesses of myself so I could function, all of it swelled into an unbearable pressure. I fought to contain it, but it was like trying to hold back the tide. A hint of relief was all it took. The flood burst through my defenses and drowned me.
My spine turned to wet cotton. I clamped my arms to my sides, trying to hold myself rigid and keep myself from slumping over. A hard, hot clump blocked my throat. My heart thudded. It hurt, it really hurt, and I didn't even understand where the pain emanated from. I just knew I hurt all over. Cold and burning up at the same time, I had to clench my teeth to keep them from chattering.
"Kate?" Derek's alarmed voice demanded my attention. If only I could speak, I'd be okay.
I wished I could cry or something; I needed, desperately wanted, a release, but my eyes were dry and that pressure remained locked in me, battering me with pain.
Derek pushed from the pillow toward me. He'd gone pale, his new face rigid like a mask.
"I'm sorry."
He put his forehead against my hair, his arms around my shoulders. I hung suspended in my own painful world, like a speck in a storm.
"You can't do this to me again." My voice sounded rusty, as though it hadn't been used in years. "You can't show me you're in trouble but not let me help. Not let me do anything."
"I won't," he promised.
"I can't deal with the guilt."
"I promise, I won't."
Everyone I dared to care about died, violently and in pain. My mother died putting a knife into Roland's eye, because he wanted to kill me. She was stolen from me before I had a chance to remember her. My dad died in his bed. I didn't even know how or why. He had sent me on a training run, three days in the wilderness, just me and a knife. The smell had hit me ten yards from the front door. I found him in his bed. He was bloated. His skin had blistered and fluids had leaked from his body. He'd disemboweled himself - the sword was still clamped in his hand. I was fifteen.
Greg died on assignment. We'd had a fight a few weeks before his death and we didn't part on good terms. He was ripped to pieces, his body shredded as if it had gone through a cheese grater.
Bran was stabbed through the back. He was almost immortal, and still he died, in my arms. I so desperately tried to keep him alive, I nearly brought him into undeath.
It was as if Death stalked me, like a cruel and cowardly enemy, taunting me, eating away at the edges of my world by stealing those I cared about. It didn't just kill; it obliterated. Every time I got distracted, it would snatch another friend from me and destroy him.