Chapter 2:
1040 Words
WREN
The first thing I realized was that he was far too heavy for a dying man.
I stood over him for a while, my chest rising hard from exhaustion as I stared down at his motionless body. Up close, his injuries looked even worse.
I crouched beside him again and grabbed his shoulders firmly.
“Hey,” I called over the wind. “Wake up.”
Nothing.
I shook him harder this time. His head rolled weakly to the side, his dark hair falling across his forehead, but his eyes stayed closed.
“Come on,” I muttered. “If you can stand, I can at least get you somewhere warm.”
Yet nothing.
I let out a tired breath and sat back on my heels. This was ridiculous. I had already done more than enough by checking if he was alive. Nobody could blame me for walking away now, not in a storm like this.
I looked down the empty trail, then back at him. I had work in a few hours.
Dale would absolutely make my life miserable if I showed up late again. Rent was due in two days. I barely had enough money left for groceries after paying for heating last week, and dragging home an unconscious stranger covered in blood felt exactly like the kind of terrible decision that destroyed lives.
Leaving him here made more sense. Honestly, it was the smartest option.
As I pushed myself to my feet, his hand closed around my wrist, causing me to freeze.
The grip was tight enough to stop me cold despite the fact that he was still unconscious. For one terrifying second, I thought he had woken up. But when I looked down at him, his eyes were still closed. His fingers tightened around my wrist like his body refused to let the last thing keeping him alive walk away.
I stared at him in disbelief. Then carefully, I peeled his fingers off me one by one.
“You’re making this very difficult,” I muttered.
The smart thing would still be to leave.
Three years in prison had taught me exactly what happened to people who tried too hard to save others. Nobody rewards sacrifice. Nobody cared about good intentions. Sometimes you end up running your entire life trying to help someone who never even remembers your name.
Still, I looked back at him lying there half buried in snow, bleeding out in the dark, and something inside me said otherwise. Being in prison that long might have hardened my heart, but apparently it still hasn't killed the doctor in me.
“Fine,” I muttered. “But if you die halfway there, I’m leaving you.”
I hooked one of his arms around my shoulders and practically hauled him through the snow with every strength in me. His weight dragged against me hard enough, but more than that, I nearly dropped him completely.
By the time the mechanic shop finally came into view, I was breathing so hard it felt like my lungs were slowly freezing. My arms were shaking so bad they could barely unlock the door. Getting him upstairs was worse, I had to stop halfway twice just to breathe.
When we finally stumbled into my room I let him fall onto the bed with a heavy thud before slamming the door shut behind us. For several seconds, I just leaned against it, trying to catch my breath.
“You owe me already,” I informed his unconscious body.
Then I got to work.
I washed my hands before laying out what little medical supplies I still had left. I’d been saving them for emergencies. The tiny first aid kit beneath my sink suddenly looked useless compared to the damage in front of me.
Still, it would have to do.
I cut away the ruined remains of his shirt carefully, and immediately wished I hadn’t. Bruises covered nearly every inch of him, both old and new. And there were knife marks also, particularly along his side. Surely, they would have gotten fatal if not treated sooner.
I cleaned the wounds slowly while trying not to think too much. When I got to the deeper wounds, his body tensed, a low sound escaping his mouth.
“Don’t,” I warned softly. “I’m trying very hard not to regret this already.”
I worked for nearly two hours before finally sitting back. I was damn so tired, not even the stress from being a cleaner was compared to this.
I studied him for a while. The cuts on his body weren't just from one attack, more like he'd been attacked on several occasions. The fact that he had no pack markings was an alarm I couldn't ignore. Every wolf carried traces of their Pack, even after years away from home. But this man had none, and that terrified me more.
“Who the hell are you?” I whispered.
Hours seemed to pass before I finally finished bandaging the last wound. I rolled the leftover gauze together and checked what remained of my supplies. Almost nothing. I’d just spent half my remaining money saving a stranger who looked like he belonged in the middle of a war.
I sat back in the chair beside the bed and stared at him for a long moment.
Now that the blood was mostly cleaned away, he somehow looked even more dangerous. His face had lost some of its paleness, revealing sharp features and the kind of brutal handsomeness that usually came attached to trouble.
I checked his pockets afterward hoping for at least a wallet. There was nothing. No money, no phones, nothing to stand as an identification. Not even a damn coin!
I stared at him in disbelief.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” A tired laugh escaped me before I could stop it. Then I pointed a finger at his unconscious body.
“When you wake up,” I informed him firmly, “you are paying me back for every single thing I used tonight.”
My gaze drifted toward the ruined supplies scattered around the room.
“And trust me,” I added quietly, “you’re already very expensive.”
- Writer
