Ivy POV
His hand stays on her wrist even as his eyes start to close. She can feel his pulse, fast and panicked, beating against her skin.
"Don't call anyone," he says again. His voice is fading. "Please."
Then he's gone. His hand drops and his eyes shut and he's unconscious again, bleeding on her living room floor in human form.
Ivy stands there for maybe thirty seconds just staring at him. At the wound in his side that's still seeping blood. At his chest moving up and down with labored breathing. At the fact that she's alone in her apartment with a naked man she doesn't know who just shifted from a wolf to a person in front of her eyes.
This isn't real.
This can't be real.
She should run.
Instead she grabs her phone off the couch and sets it on the kitchen counter where she can see it but won't accidentally use it. Then she gets to work.
She finds clean towels in her bathroom and brings them back. She finds the bottle of hydrogen peroxide from under her sink. She grabs every bandage and gauze pad she has, which isn't much because she's not the type of person who gets injured. She's the type of person who avoids injury by playing it safe.
This man's wound needs a hospital.
She cleans it anyway.
The peroxide fizzes against the cut and she tries not to think about what she's doing. Tries not to think about the fact that she's touching a stranger. A naked stranger. A stranger who was literally an animal five minutes ago.
But her hands stay steady because this is what she knows how to do. She's spent five years listening to people's pain. Now she's cleaning someone's actual pain and somehow that's easier. Physical problems have physical solutions. Mental problems just repeat and repeat until you disappear into them.
She works in silence. She wraps the bandage around his side even though she knows it won't hold. Even though she knows real bandages and real help are what he needs. But he asked her not to call anyone and she said yes and now she's committed to this insanity.
His breathing settles as she works. The panic drains out of him and he just looks exhausted instead of terrified. She cleans the smaller cuts on his arms and legs. She finds a blanket and covers him because he's still naked and that feels wrong somehow, like she's violating something by looking at him like this.
When she's done it's almost 4 AM.
Her apartment smells like blood and fear and something else. Something wild that she doesn't have a name for.
She should go to bed.
She sits on the armchair across from him instead and watches him sleep.
His face is different when he's not conscious. Less threatening. She can see pain in the way his jaw is clenched. She can see exhaustion in every line of his body. He's young maybe. Thirty something. Hard to tell with someone this big.
She thinks about the wolf. About how it moved like it was running from something. Like it was trying to get away and her window just happened to be the escape route.
She thinks about how his eyes tracked her. How aware he was even when he was bleeding out.
She thinks about how he begged her not to call for help.
Somewhere around 5 AM, Ivy falls asleep in the armchair. She dreams about wolves and blood and eyes that see inside her. She dreams about someone drowning and being the only one who can save them. She dreams about what it means to choose saving someone over saving yourself.
When she wakes up it's 9 AM and she's still in the armchair.
The man is still asleep but his breathing is easier now. The blanket has shifted and she can see more of the bandage she wrapped around his side. It's held. It's not perfect but it's held.
She gets up slowly. Her neck is stiff. Her body aches from sleeping in the chair. She needs coffee. She needs to think about what she's going to do when he wakes up. She needs to figure out if she just made the worst decision of her life or the bravest one.
In the kitchen, she starts the coffee maker. She looks at her phone. No messages. No missed calls. The world went on without her doing anything for seven hours.
The coffee is just starting to brew when she hears movement from the living room.
She goes back and he's trying to sit up. His face is tight with pain. His eyes are open and they're looking at her and there's something in them that makes her stop moving.
Recognition.
Not like he remembers her from somewhere. Not like he's placing a face. It's something deeper than that. Something that hits her like a physical thing, like he's looking at her and seeing all of her at once. Every broken piece. Every wall she built. Every lonely night sitting in her apartment listening to other people's pain.
He looks at her like he knows her.
"What's your name?" he asks.
His voice is rough but clearer than before. He's still in pain but he's conscious and present and those grey eyes are locked on hers like she's the only real thing in his world.
"Ivy," she says.
He closes his eyes and something that looks like relief washes over his face.
"Ivy," he repeats like he's trying out the sound of it. Like it means something. "Of course your name is Ivy."
That's when she sees it.
Underneath the bruises and the blood and the exhaustion, there's a tenderness in his expression. A kind of longing that shouldn't be there. A kind of recognition that goes both ways.
He opens his eyes and looks at her again and Ivy realizes that she has no idea who this person is but somehow he knows exactly who she is.
"You didn't call anyone," he says.
"No."
"Why?"
Ivy doesn't have a good answer for that. She could talk about her counselor training. About how she recognizes pain in people. About how she saw something in him that made her want to help instead of run.
But he's still looking at her like he already knows the answer. Like he's been waiting for her to answer this question her whole life.
"Because you needed help," she finally says.
His expression breaks open like she just said something profound instead of obvious. He tries to sit up again and this time he gets further before pain stops him.
"I need to leave," he says.
"You're injured."
"I know. I'll heal. But if I stay here it puts you in danger."
"Danger from what?"
He looks away from her. Looks toward the broken window where cold morning air is blowing through the empty space. When he looks back at her, there's something else in his eyes. Something that looks like he's making a decision that costs him everything.
"From me," he says quietly. "And from people who will come looking for me."
Before Ivy can ask what he means, there's a sound from outside. Footsteps on the stairs. Multiple people. Getting closer.
His body goes rigid.
"They found me," he breathes.
He tries to stand up and immediately falls. Ivy moves without thinking. She moves to him and helps pull him back onto the couch.
"Hide," she says.
"What?"
"Hide. I'll answer the door."
The footsteps reach her door.
He grabs her wrist again and this time his grip is desperate. "If they know you helped me, they'll come after you."
"Then don't tell them," she says.
The knock on her door is loud and demanding.
Ivy pulls her wrist free and goes to answer it, leaving him bleeding on her couch, leaving him helpless, leaving him dependent on her to save him again.
She opens the door and there's a man in expensive clothes standing in her hallway. He's older. Dangerous in a way that has nothing to do with teeth or claws. And his grey eyes, so similar to the ones in her living room, are searching her apartment like he's looking for something.
His eyes land on the broken window.
His eyes land on the blood on her floor.
His eyes land on her.
"I'm looking for someone," he says. "Large man. Dark hair. Wounded. Have you seen anyone like that?"
Ivy's heart is pounding so hard she thinks he can hear it.
Behind her, she hears the man on her couch shift. Hears him trying to get up. Hears him failing.
"No," she lies.
The man in the doorway doesn't believe her.