Avery’s POV
“It’s fine,” Gideon said. “Just a scratch.”
He said that as he pressed the cloth to his side, the fabric staining with blood.
I huffed, uncapping the small tub of ointment that I’d used for my neck earlier that night. Outside, crickets chirped beneath the window and an owl hooted somewhere, the pack otherwise quiet. In the bathroom, my mind felt like it was screaming.
“It’s more than a scratch,” I said, gently peeling away the cloth to look at the wound. The three gashes were deep and angry, already raising into long, thin welts on either side of them. “I can’t believe I did this to you.”
“It’s not your fault,” he insisted. “You must have been having a nightmare, that’s all. Your wolf surged and you clawed at me.”
I furrowed my brow, wracking my mind to recall the dreams I’d been having before Gideon’s shout of pain woke me up. I didn’t remember much. Just the typical, nonsensical dreams I normally had. No prophetic dreams, and certainly no nightmares.
“I don’t know,” I murmured, gently starting to dab at the wound with my fingertip covered in ointment. “I don’t remember any nightmares.”
“Sometimes people have night terrors without even realizing it.”
I looked up at him through my brow as if to say that I really didn’t think that was the case, then got back to work.
After that, he let me work without saying anything, which I was grateful for, because I didn’t have anything to say. My hands were shaking, my claws now retracted but the memory of what I’d done still burning at the forefront of my mind. Gideon sat still, occasionally hissing through his teeth, but didn’t complain at all.
Finally, I smoothed the last of the salve over the uppermost line and stood, washing my hands in the sink. Once I’d dried them, I helped Gideon wrap his torso in clean white bandages with gauze to cushion the wounds.
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