The Wolf In His Bones

Chapter 8

I don’t sleep.

I drift in and out, trapped somewhere between pain and exhaustion, my body too tired to stay awake but too tense to fully let go.

Every movement sends a sharp reminder through my leg.

Every breath feels too loud in the silence.

And my mind?

Worse.

It keeps replaying him.

The way he looked at me before he pulled the trigger.

Unapologetic.

Like I meant nothing.

I swallow hard and shift slightly—

Bad idea.

Pain flares instantly, and I suck in a quiet breath, pressing my lips together.

Okay.

Not moving again.

Not unless I absolutely have to.

Time passes. I don’t know how much.

Minutes. Hours. Maybe both.

Then—

Footsteps.

Heavy.

Measured.

Not rushed.

Not careless.

My body goes still.

The door opens.

I don’t need to look to know who it is.

I feel it.

That same presence.

Like the air shifts around him.

Like the room itself is aware of him.

Still… I turn my head.

And there he is.

Damien.

Leaning against the doorframe like he owns everything in this place—and maybe he does.

His expression is unreadable.

Cold.

Controlled.

But his eyes…

They’re on me.

Not scanning.

Not dismissing.

Just… watching.

Like I’m something he hasn’t figured out yet.

I push myself up slightly, ignoring the pain screaming through my leg.

“If you came to shoot me again,” I say, my voice rough but steady, “at least warn me this time.”

His jaw tightens.

“Still talking,” he says.

“Still breathing. Seems to bother you.”

Silence stretches between us.

Thick.

Heavy.

Then he steps inside.

Slow.

Deliberate.

Every movement calculated.

My heartbeat picks up—but I refuse to look away.

He stops at the foot of the bed, eyes dropping briefly to my leg.

The bandage.

The blood.

His doing.

Something flickers across his face.

It’s quick.

Gone before I can name it.

I don’t want his guilt.

“You shouldn’t have run,” he says.

I let out a quiet laugh. “Yeah. My mistake. Next time I’ll stay and enjoy the kidnapping.”

His gaze snaps back to mine.

Sharp.

Dangerous.

“Don’t test me.”

“Oh, I’m not testing you,” I say calmly. “You already proved exactly what you are.”

That lands.

I see it.

A shift in his posture. A tension in his shoulders.

But instead of lashing out—

He steps closer.

Too close.

My breath catches for half a second before I control it.

He notices.

Of course he does.

His eyes darken slightly.

“You think you understand anything about me?” he murmurs.

His voice is lower now.

Quieter.

And somehow… worse.

I tilt my chin up, refusing to back down.

“I understand that you kidnapped me,” I say. “Tied me up. Let your men hit me. And then shot me when I tried to leave.”

I meet his gaze, steady.

“So yeah. I think I have a pretty clear idea.”

Silence.

For a second, neither of us moves.

Then—

His hand lifts.

My entire body tenses.

Not fear.

Not exactly.

Instinct.

But instead of hitting me…

His fingers brush just under my chin, tilting my face slightly toward the light.

The contact is brief.

Barely there.

But it hits harder than anything else.

Because it’s not violent.

It’s controlled.

Intentional.

And way too close.

My breath stutters before I can stop it.

His eyes flicker.

Gold.

Just for a second.

There.

Gone.

But I saw it.

I know I did.

My heart starts pounding.

“What…” My voice comes out quieter than I want. “What are you?”

The question hangs in the air.

Dangerous.

His expression shifts instantly.

The softness—if it was even that—is gone.

Replaced by something colder.

Sharper.

More dangerous.

He steps back like the moment never happened.

Like he didn’t just touch me.

Like I imagined it.

“You ask too many questions,” he says flatly.

“And you don’t answer any,” I shoot back.

Something in his eyes snaps.

Not fully.

But enough.

He turns away abruptly, running a hand through his hair like something is getting under his skin.

“This doesn’t concern you,” he mutters.

“It concerns me if I’m the one getting shot,” I reply.

He laughs.

But there’s no humor in it.

“Trust me,” he says, glancing back at me. “You’re barely scratching the surface of what concerns you.”

That… doesn’t sound reassuring.

At all.

I watch him carefully.

“Then maybe you should explain,” I say. “Since I’m already in it.”

He studies me for a long moment.

Long enough to make my chest tighten.

“No.”

Of course.

I roll my eyes slightly. “Right. Communication isn’t your thing.”

His lips press into a thin line.

But instead of reacting—

He walks toward the door.

Stops.

Without turning around, he says:

“You’re not leaving that room again.”

My grip tightens on the sheets.

“Or what?”

He glances over his shoulder.

And this time…

There’s no control in his eyes.

Just a flicker of something raw.

Unstable.

“Next time,” he says quietly, “I won’t aim to stop you.”

A chill runs down my spine.

Not because I don’t believe him.

But because I do.

He opens the door.

Steps out.

And just like that—

He’s gone.

The room feels colder without him.

Quieter.

But somehow…

More dangerous.

I sink back against the bed, my heart still racing.

My leg throbbing.

My mind spinning.

He’s not human.

I don’t know what he is.

I don’t know what I got dragged into.

But one thing is clear—

That man?

He’s not just dangerous.

He’s something worse.

And for some reason…

I’m right in the middle of it.