Page 42 of Caged

Yup.

I’ll file this under “Impressive.”

Right next to “What the fuck?”

Leaning my forearms against the shower tile, steam rises in the air as I let the hot water pound into the tense muscles of my back.

I’ve been standing here for too long, watching blood and brain matter swirl down the drain.

Exhaustion pulls at every limb, and I’m debating saying fuck it and crawling into bed.

I know everyone is waiting for me to debrief. I should already be in the War Room, letting Dax pick apart every moment of the evening and reliving my epic failure in High Def as he replays the drone footage.

Instead, I grab the soap and start scrubbing myself down. Again.

There’s a gentle prod from Caelan down the Bond. It’s light, barely more than a brush. Enough so I know he’s there. An offer to lean on him if I need to.

He and Dax have been fielding my self-loathing for the last hour, but I don’t have the energy to put up a block tonight. I’m too tired.

Lavender and ozone haunt me. The phantom scent swirls through the air like it’s embedded in the steam itself. Maybe it followed me back here from that fucking warehouse.

Maybe it’s haunting me.

Even through the layers of dirt and grime of that building, I was able to pick it out instantly. The scent of magic that old rarely fades away if the area isn’t cleansed properly. After my parents forced me through the ritual that changed my life, I could smell it for months.

This scent is slightly different, though. There is a very faint undertone of amber that is… new. I can’t help but wonder what it means.

To be fair, I already know what it means in a general sense.

Nothing good.

I rinse the shampoo out of my dark auburn hair and send a wave of reassurance to my packmates. Just enough to let them know I’m good. Still standing, at least.

There will be no hiding this from the team. I’ll have to explain exactly why I randomly went off like a porcupine on cocaine. What I don’t need are the pitying looks. The ones that scream, ‘It’s okay, you can try again. Hey! Maybe you’ll hold it together longer than thirty years this time!’

I grab a towel off the hook, wrap it around my waist, and run a smaller one through my hair. One long swipe of my hand across the mirror clears it of condensation.

The face staring back at me looks wrong.

Oh, don’t get me wrong, it’s healed. Perfect. Symmetrical. Technically fucking flawless. High cheekbones, straight nose, clean jawline, sharp enough to cut. Eyes dark and hooded that have seen too much, and looked away from more.

It’s fine. Too fine. This fucking Curse puts everything back in its beautiful, perfect place, like nothing ever happened. I scowl and wonder if anyone would comment on my good looks if they saw my skull trying to torpedo its way out of my face through my flesh.

I hate that, most of all. The fact that every single time this happens, my first instinct isn’t relief when it’s over. It’s a gut-punch of fear:

Fates, what if I didn’t heal this time? Did it leave a mark?

I’ll never admit it. Not even to my pack. But when the blood clears, and the pain starts to fade, the first thing I always check… is my face.

The vanity of it disgusts me. What I look like shouldn’t matter.

But there’s always that feeling in the back of my head that if we ever meet our Fated Mate and she finds out about my Bone Curse, the only things I’ll have to combat her disgust are my good looks and charm.

The charm is basically dependent on my good looks at this point.

So yeah, I’m clearly a walking fucking billboard for well-adjusted males.

I look away from the mirror, disgusted with myself as usual. Grabbing clothes from my room, I get dressed and head down the hall and out of our pack’s private wing, into the central area of HQ.