A Werewolf's Unexpected Mate-Chapter 152: Blood in the Water

[Ann’s POV]

Gale’s question—"Do you even know what a Thaumamorph is?"—didn’t just hang in the air; it drilled into my skull, echoing in the hollow chamber of my mind, each syllable landing like a hammer on an anvil. Thaumamorphs. The word was alien, a cluster of harsh syllables that meant nothing to my conscious mind, and yet... my body knew. My hands, which had just steadied, began to tremble again, a fine, uncontrollable vibration that started in my fingertips and raced up my arms.

Why? Why am I feeling this?

A deep, rolling nausea twisted in my gut. The rich, savory meal we’d just shared—the bear paw, the broth, the noodles, the pudding—suddenly felt like a leaden, foreign mass. It lurched, threatening to rise. The taste of bile coated the back of my tongue.

I pushed myself to my feet, the motion unsteady. The world tilted slightly. Lady Ovelia, Sir Ace, and Ray were all staring at me, their faces etched with identical masks of concern. Gale’s expression was unreadable, a blank slate, but his gray eyes were fixed on me with an unnerving, patient intensity. He was waiting. He expected an answer I didn’t have.

My mouth flooded with saliva. I was going to be sick.

"Ann, you look so pale!" Lady Ovelia exclaimed, her voice tight with alarm. She started to rise from her seat.

"I think... I ate too much," I managed to force out, the words thick. I clapped a hand over my mouth, the pressure a feeble attempt to hold everything inside. My skin felt clammy and cold. "I just need to use the restroom. Please, stay with them, my lady." The request was as much for my own need to flee as for her safety.

Lady Ovelia hesitated, the worry in her eyes deepening, but she gave a slow, reluctant nod and sank back into her chair, her gaze never leaving me.

Sir Ray, seated beside me, stood up smoothly, pushing his chair back to clear a path for me to the door. "Should I accompany you?" he asked, his voice low, his orange eyes scanning my face with a medic’s assessment.

I shook my head, the movement making the dizziness worse. I couldn’t speak again. I kept my hand pressed to my mouth, gave a quick, shallow bow of apology to the table, and fled.

Pushing through the sliding door, I was immediately assaulted by the vibrant chaos of the main restaurant. The air, which had been a private bubble of tense conversation, was now a thick soup of competing smells—sizzling meats, pungent spices, yeasty ale. The music from the festival, muted before, was now a lively, intrusive thrum, underscored by the roar of dozens of overlapping conversations, laughter, and the clatter of dishes. The sensory overload was a physical blow. I stumbled, righted myself, and scanned the crowded room with frantic eyes, hunting for the sign for the restroom.

Spotting it, I hurried, weaving through the clusters of merry patrons with my head down, my shoulders hunched, trying to make myself small, invisible.

•Restaurant Inn Restroom•

The relative silence of the tiled bathroom was a mercy. I checked under the stall doors; they were empty. I was alone. The air was cool, smelling of cedar soap and clean water. I stumbled to the row of stone sinks and turned the brass faucet handle. Cold water gushed out with a hiss. I cupped my hands under the stream and splashed it onto my face, again and again, the shock of the cold a feeble counter to the heat of my panic.

I stared at the clear water swirling down the drain, my breathing ragged.

Flesh Hunters? Thaumamorphs? The words circled like vultures. I had no memory, no context. They were just sounds. So why did my body treat them like poison? Why did my wolf cower?

Suddenly, my entire body convulsed with a deep, internal tremor. It wasn’t a chill. It was as if my very bones were vibrating. My wolf, usually a quiet, coiled presence, was thrashing inside me—a wild, panicked animal trapped in a cage of my own flesh. The urge to shift, to run, to escape this feeling was overwhelming. My vision blurred at the edges, darkening into a tunneling haze.

I looked down at my hands, braced on the cool porcelain of the sink.

Blood.

My hands were slick with it, crimson streaking my palms and coating my fingers, dripping into the clean basin. A strangled gasp tore from my throat. I shoved my hands under the running water, scrubbing frantically. But the blood didn’t wash away. It swirled, mixing with the water, turning it pink, then a faint, sickly red, but my skin remained stained.

I looked up into the foggy mirror above the sink.

My own face stared back, pale and ghastly. Flecks of blood were splattered across my cheeks and forehead. And the expression... it wasn’t one of horror. It was a smile. A sharp, eager, excited smile. The smile of the Crimsonheart assassin looking at a successfully eliminated target. The smile of the weapon, pleased with its function.

My reflection’s eyes held a cold, glittering satisfaction I hadn’t seen in years.

A choked sob escaped me. I looked down again. My dagger was in my hand. I hadn’t drawn it, but it was there. The blade—which I kept obsessively clean—was coated in the same impossible, glistening blood. I held it under the faucet, scrubbing the steel with my bare, bloody fingers, my movements becoming frantic, ragged. Still, it wouldn’t come clean.

The coppery, metallic stench of blood filled my nostrils, so potent it drowned out the smell of soap and damp stone. The memory of that scent—on my clothes, in the air of dark alleys, on the sheets after a long night—flooded back, a tidal wave of guilt and self-loathing.

My stomach convulsed. I bent over the sink and retched, heaving up the contents of my dinner until there was nothing left but dry, painful spasms. Tears of frustration and shame stung my eyes. I didn’t want to go back to that life. I wanted to forget I had ever done those things. I wanted to forget I had ever lived it.

I clutched at the front of my tunic, right over my pounding heart, my bloody fingers leaving dark prints on the fabric. "This is not real..." I whispered to myself, a desperate incantation. "This is not real." I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to banish the phantom blood and the memory it carried.

Then, cutting through the phantom blood and the ghost of my past, a new image flashed behind my eyes: Lady Ovelia’s face. Not the worried one from moments ago, but her genuine, warm smile from earlier, when she’d tasted the pudding. And then, her face twisted with worry for me. The contrast was a physical ache.

I don’t want Lady Ovelia to see me like this. The thought was a clear, piercing light in the hallucinatory darkness. I don’t want her to ever see me covered in blood.

The bathroom door swung open with a creak, followed by the bright, chattering voices of three young women—a mix of human and werewolf scents. Their conversation about festival ribbons and handsome performers filled the small room.

I jerked my eyes open.

The blood was gone.

My hands were clean, wet only from the clear, running tap water. The dagger was spotless steel. My face in the mirror was pale and strained, but unmarked. The water in the basin ran clear. The only smell was of cedar and damp stone.

The only blood was the memory of it, pounding in my ears.

The two women, chatting amiably, moved toward the stalls. As I felt one of the women move to the sink next to me, I moved with the silent, automatic efficiency of my training. I sheathed the dagger at my hip in one smooth motion before she could even glance my way. The last thing I needed was to cause a panic.

I am fully aware I am cursed. The witch’s binding is a familiar, grim pressure in my soul. But this... this was different. This was a reaction to words. Was the curse reacting to the terms "Thaumamorph" and "Flesh Hunters"? Was the magic that bound my past somehow intertwined with those ancient horrors?

The questions multiplied, a tangled knot with no end I could see, and a cold certainty told me I wouldn’t like the answers if I ever found them.

With a final, steadying breath that still trembled in my chest, I reached out and turned off the faucet. The flow of water ceased, leaving a ringing silence in its wake. My reflection in the mirror was pale but composed. The assassin’s smile was gone, replaced by the impassive mask of a bodyguard.

They are waiting. They are worried. The thought of Lady Ovelia’s concerned face was the final anchor. I could not hide here.

I took one last, steadying breath, the clean air filling my lungs. I straightened my tunic, smoothed back a stray strand of hair, and turned from the basin. With measured, deliberate steps, I walked past the chatting women, pushed the door open, and stepped back into the noise of the inn, heading back to the private room where my new life awaited—along with Gale’s terrifying questions.