My feet carried me automatically toward my bedroom. Our bedroom.
The door creaked softly as I pushed it open. Moonlight streamed through the window, painting everything in shades of silver and shadow. And there, on the bed, was Steven.
“Steven?” I called softly.
He was sleeping, his chest rising and falling with steady breaths. But it was his body that made my heart clench painfully in my chest.
Oh, Steven.
My heart shattered seeing him in this broken condition.
Wounds covered his skin, some bandaged, others still raw and angry. Bruises marred his skin in violent purples and blacks, some yellowed with age, others fresh and angry.
A particularly nasty cut ran along his forearm, the skin around it inflamed despite obvious treatment.
Wolfsbane wounds didn't heal quickly, I watched him
