Saved by the King

Fifty Four*

Logan was right.

The new car came at around 5 o'clock in the evening. The driver–a male wolf in the same age group as Logan and me–called Logan on his cell phone to alert us to his presence. A short exchange ensued, Logan ended the call, then glanced over at me to see if I was awake. I was, barely, enough to hear Logan's phone ring and his side of the brief phone call, but not enough to be considered alert or even energized enough to leave the bed.

"That was the driver," Logan explained as he strode over to the armchair where his duffel bag rested. He had gotten everything ready during the waiting hours, so all he had to do was carry the bag out.

As for me, Logan looked concerned when I so much as sat up. I internally rolled my eyes at his excessive concern. I would have rolled my eyes externally, but the change in position had my head rushing and my vision was a bit too blurry for me to roll my eyes. It didn't matter. I could make it to the car.

***

As it turns out, it would have been more accurate if I had said that I could barely make it to the car. In the back of my mind, I knew I was being a complete idiot as I stumbled my across the hall and down the narrow steps; for whatever reason, I had a complete inability to accept that I wasn't as strong as I was before Violet took me. Not even close. I also knew that constantly pushing myself to my physical limits was not how someone in my situation got stronger. On the contrary, as Alice had told Logan many times before we left, the more I slept and the less I moved, the faster I would gain strength. Apparently, the violent loss of the Bond coupled with Aamon's merciless beatings and demands had literally almost killed me, so now I had to just stay still as much as possible and let my body heal.

The problem was that I never was and never had been someone to just lay down all day and have someone else do the work for me. No, I wanted to be up. I wanted to be moving. The worst part, though, was that every step I took sent a shooting pain through my hips and almost completely disabled me from walking at all.

I was leaning against the wall, clutching the handrail next to the stairs. I had only made it halfway down before the pain in my hips began to shift to numbness. I held my tears back and clenched my teeth together. I knew I was being stupid, pushing myself like this when my body obviously couldn't handle it, but I was determined to maintain some degree of independence, no matter how painful. As I leaned my the side of my head against the wall, eyes closed and getting ready to finish the agonizing journey, Logan was on his way back to our room. Our room, where he told me to wait for him so he could help me to the car. Our room, where I was supposed to be right then instead of down the hallway and halfway down the stairs.

I heard him inhale sharply when he saw me. I opened my eyes but kept my head against the wall, preparing for an argument.

"Carter." His tone was one of exasperation and impatience, which is exactly what I was expecting. I shrugged helplessly and closed my eyes again.

"I can walk down a flight of stairs by myself," I mumbled.

"Can you?" he asked sarcastically as he made his way up the stairs. "Because it doesn't look like it."

Irritation flickered in my chest, and I briefly considered a cutting remark or maybe a quick "Go to hell," but decided against it. Ultimately, he was right, and I didn't feel like fighting with him right then. I'd just gone weeks without seeing him once, and even though I was with him I could still feel the residual aches of his absence. I decided to act contrite.

"I'm sorry," I mumbled. "I just hate being so reliant, especially for basic things like walking."

"It won't be for much longer," he said. "You're already stronger than you were yesterday. Just hang in there for a few days."