my forked tongue flickers out and lashes over the wound, tasting his pain and blood as he watches, panting.
“Get out!” he yells, his voice rough as I lean back and view him.
His face flickers for a moment, his mouth open in a silent scream. It seems to stretch out, almost peeling away before he slumps back with his eyes closed. “Please,” he whispers, begging me. “Get out, don’t watch me!”
“Why?” I hiss, my voice deep from being shifted.
He’s huffing now, his face pale and eyes closed in pain that I can almost taste on the air. His body is vibrating like he’s holding something back. “Why?” I demand, and his eyes flicker open, locking on me.
“You can’t stay,” he implores desperately. “Can’t see my true face. I need to-to change back to heal but—”
Sighing, I lean closer, and with my claw-tipped hand, I cup his face. “Change,” I demand with a smirk. “You’ve seen mine, now let me see yours. I will protect you, but you need to change. Now.” His eyes flare briefly at hearing his words repeated back to him.
He swallows, searching my gaze, and then like he can’t bear to look at me, he pulls away from my touch and finally lets the skin he’s wearing fall away. But I think due to the pain and the bullet, he’s struggling to gather the energy he needs to shift, and with a scream, he rips at his face. He peels away the skin as if he’s clawing his own off, making me wince at the agony I feel flowing from him until he collapses.
His hands cover his face.
I wait, the silence stretching on, and he slowly drops them. He keeps his eyes closed before he takes a deep breath and opens them, watching me as I startle from the difference.
He has dark, slanted eyebrows that give those black orbs an angry, dangerous appearance. His hair is dark, black, short, and spiked on the top and shaved at the sides with long sideburns. But just before them is a jagged scar which runs around all of his face, like his skin was cut away and peeled…and I’m betting it was from his family. Slowly, I run my gaze across his face, from his thick, plump pink lips and the stubble that covers his jaw, to his thick, regal nose, arched cheekbones, and strong square jaw. He’s so different yet familiar, like I knew this was him even without those eyes he always wears. The eyes I love so much.
He’s also beautiful. The thick, obvious scar doesn’t detract from his appeal. In fact, it has me nearly licking my lips as my wendigo fades away, letting me change back to human as desire consumes me. I want to kiss him, to taste those lips in his own skin, this man I have grown close to. He could wear the most beautiful skins in the world, but this one right here is my favourite, because it’s him. Every line, every scar betrays his past pain and survival instincts. Every line, dip, and imperfection demonstrates just what he went through to get here. I want to lick along his scar, to taste it, to feel it under my tongue, and to show him it doesn’t detract from his beauty. No, it adds to it, makes him look dangerous, dark, and like a goddamn warrior.
A true hunter, like me.
He’s taller too, and thick with muscle. His arms bulge, his veiny forearms clenching as he waits for my judgement, my opinion, like he’s waiting for a blow. He has thick thighs, like tree trunks, that I want to climb. He has a few tattoos dotted on his shoulder, the artwork intricate, tribal lines and dots like a mandala. He has another scar across his wide neck, like they cut it at one point, with a few more faded white ones below and above it like it happened a lot. I make sure to catalogue each scar before I meet his eyes again.
“You’re beautiful,” I whisper as I watch the hole in his chest start to heal slowly.
He snorts bitterly, and I narrow my eyes. “You are. Why did you believe I wouldn’t think that? The scars? Bitch, please, they show me you’re a survivor. I have my own goddamn scars to match. This world isn’t easy. It’s made for the strong to flourish. So that…” I lean forward and run my finger across the raised scar, even as he tries to jerk away. “Shows