TO TAME THE BRUTAL LYCAN BEAST-Chapter 80: NURSING THE DEVIL

VALORIA WILDEROSE

This time, he remains unconscious, giving me the chance to drag him onto the bed. It takes twenty agonizing minutes to do it, leaving me out of breath.

I nurse him through his high fever, using cold, wet compresses on his burning skin, and try to tend to the wound.

But just as eerily as he had bled from that one spot, the wound seems to heal on its own, the pulsing veins fading into his flesh, leaving the same scar, but with red puffiness around it.

A few more minutes pass before he begins to stir in his unconscious state, groaning and moving, until his blue eyes pop open, scanning the world around him before settling on me.

"You’re still here," he comments, as if expecting me to have been long gone by now—as if I have the choice to leave, even if I’m still partially spooked by everything I’ve seen tonight.

"I-It’s not like I have anywh-where else to g-go. This is my room too."

His gaze shifts into an uncomfortable frown, watching me before he sits up slowly.

"You’re stuttering again," he says, looking at me like I’ve wounded him deeper than any blade ever could.

I divert my eyes, trying to hide from his gaze that seems to see right into my soul and see every thought I’m desperately trying to bury.

"You’re afraid of me, aren’t you?" he scoffs the moment he recognizes my deflection, and there’s something bitter in his voice—like he’s forgotten that before now, all he’s ever wanted was for me to be terrified of him.

Like now that he’s gotten what he wanted, he hates it.

"Idiot." He starts as usual with his harsh words, building walls to cushion whatever blow he’s feeling inside. "If you know you’re going to be afraid, you should have run like any sane person. Or maybe you’re just drawn to the pain. Maybe you like suffering."

The accusation stings more than it should, but I force myself to hold his gaze this time.

"You don’t mean that," I point out quietly, finding my voice again despite the trembling in my chest. "I’ve been around you long enough to know you’re only unnecessarily harsh when you don’t want to face something real. When you’re scared. I wonder who the actual idiot is between both of us."

He scoffs, but there’s no real bite behind it this time.

"You saw me through one crisis and suddenly you feel like you know me better than everyone else who’s known me for centuries. Typical. This is exactly why it’s so easy to deceive you, Valoria. Why your family treats you like trash, and you just let them." He throws another low blow, aiming for the parts of me he knows are already broken.

But I’m not fazed anymore. Not after everything that’s happened tonight.

"I’m not scared of you," I say it clearly so he knows, so there’s no room for misunderstanding. "Not the way you think I am, at least. I didn’t leave because you looked like you were dying—like you might actually die, and for some stupid reason I couldn’t just... let that happen."

The admission hangs between us, raw, vulnerable, and I hate how exposed it makes me feel.

"Isn’t that why you’re here in the first place? To kill me?" His voice is quieter now, almost careful. "You should have left me there and fulfilled your precious mission. If anything, it was your best chance to slit my throat and be done with all of this. With me."

"I will eventually," I point out, reminding him—and mostly myself—of what will eventually need to happen for my own happiness and freedom. For the world’s safety.

"And what about you?" I’m suddenly angry, the emotion bubbling up from everywhere at once. "I’ve defied you countless times. Challenged you. Pushed back against every single thing you’ve demanded of me. You’ve had so many chances to kill me like you keep threatening you will, and yet you haven’t. Instead, you saved me tonight. You saved me from my psychotic family when you could have just let them destroy me and been done with it."

I’m closer to his face now, close enough to see the conflict warring in those impossibly blue eyes.

He hesitates to speak this time, unlike before when the cruel words always spilled out so quickly and easily.

"I can kill you anytime I want to," he finally says, but his voice lacks its usual conviction. "I just haven’t decided when or how I’ll do it yet. Haven’t figured out the best way to make it hurt."

"Then do it now." The challenge leaves my lips before I can stop it. "Do it now, Azrael, or I won’t guarantee that next time I won’t run a blade through your heart."

He watches me for a long moment, clearly torn about something he won’t voice. Then his gaze drops lower than my eyes—to my lips—and I’m hit with déjà vu so strong it makes my breath catch.

I just asked him to kill me like a complete masochist, and instead he leans closer and kisses me, pressing his lips against mine with a desperate hunger that steals whatever protest I might have had.

He kisses me like I’m oxygen and he’s been drowning, like I’m the only thing keeping him tethered to something resembling sanity.

He suckles and nibbles on my lips eagerly, greedily, and I let him—shamelessly engulfed in the moment because I’ve gotten too used to this.

Too used to the way kissing him feels, too used to the warmth and forbidden sweetness of his tongue to even think about fighting him off anymore.

So I give in, letting myself drown in him for a few heated seconds that stretch into something longer, something more dangerous.

Until reality crashes back in and I realize what I’m doing—what we’re doing—and I fight back, pulling away before it can get even more heated and I lose myself completely.