Chapter 4

SILAS

I wasn’t an evil person, but I’d be lying if I called myself a saint. Life had taught me long ago that no one was entirely good or bad—we were all somewhere in the messy, gray middle. And right now, as I looked down at this stranger, passed out and burning up on my dog’s bed, I was firmly planted in that moral gray zone.

Riley—if that was even his real name—was in bad shape. He’d been feverish and muttering incoherently for the past few minutes, his body a bundle of shivers one second and burning hot the next. His skin was so flushed I could feel the heat radiating off him, seeping into my shirt where he’d clawed at it like a lifeline. He twisted on his side, mumbling something I couldn’t quite catch, teeth chattering like he was freezing, though sweat drenched his skin.

“I didn’t do it…” The words escaped his lips in a faint murmur, his fingers unclenching and curling into the mattress instead.

I frowned, my eyes narrowing as I watched him. Didn’t do what? He wasn’t making any sense. I didn’t know what kind of trouble he was wrapped up in, and maybe I didn’t want to, but something about the raw edge in his voice made me pause.

After a moment, I pushed myself off the bed with a sigh, heading toward the cabinet to see what I had on hand. I wasn’t some miracle worker, but I’d grown up knowing enough about patching up scrapes and dealing with the occasional fever. He wasn’t going to die here if I could help it—I didn’t need a dead body messing up my already complicated life.

I rummaged through the cabinet, grabbing whatever seemed useful. A couple of old antibiotics, a pack of aspirin that probably expired a few years back, and some basic first aid. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing. I returned to the room, settling on the edge of the bed with a cup of water in hand.

“Riley, wake up.” I shook his shoulder, much harder this time. His eyes stayed closed, his body twisting, sweat pouring down his skin, and, well… it was hard not to notice he was… let’s just say the fever was doing things to him. He shifted, his brow furrowing, mouth parting in a soft groan.

Damn it. I grit my teeth, giving him another sharp shake. “Wake up. I really don’t want you dying on my bed,” I muttered, shaking him a little harder. My voice came out more desperate than I wanted. Part of me wanted him gone, but another part, well… he’d crawled under my skin. Even if I barely knew him, the idea of letting him waste away here didn’t sit right with me.

He groaned, brow creasing as he muttered, “Marcus… please, wake up.”

I froze at the name, something aching in his voice as he called out. Whoever Marcus was, he clearly meant something to Riley. Maybe even everything. I felt a strange pang of something—sympathy, maybe, or a shadow of my own buried regrets.

“Come on, Riley. Snap out of it,” I said, half-begging at this point. My hand gripped his shoulder harder than necessary, and I leaned in closer, trying to force him back to the present. But his breathing only hitched, and I watched helplessly as he arched up the bed, pain etched into every line of his face.

The room felt stifling as Riley lay sprawled on the bed, a feverish mess, his body damp with sweat and his breaths coming in shallow gasps. He muttered again, voice low and desperate, “Alpha, make it stop.” I shook him, harder this time, until his eyes fluttered open, glazed with confusion and pain.

Before he could slip back into unconsciousness, I seized the chance. Tilting his head back, I held his jaw firm and pushed the pill down his throat, not letting go until I felt him swallow. As soon as he slumped back, I released a shaky breath and pushed myself off the bed, my own pulse racing like I’d just sprinted through the woods.

“Damn kid is more trouble than he’s worth,” I muttered, wiping the sweat from my forehead. As he settled into restless sleep, I left the room, figuring he’d need something to eat when he finally woke up.

About fifteen minutes later, I was heading back, a steaming bowl of my classic ramen in hand. Who would’ve thought I’d be cooking for the same guy who’d broken into my house and tried to strangle me? I pushed open the door, eyes on the bowl, but as I glanced up, I froze.

The bowl slipped from my hand, crashing to the floor. Riley’s body was arched on the bed, his frame shifting in ways that weren’t natural. His jeans were torn, claws extending from his fingers, fur covering his arms and chest.

My whole body went cold, old memories flooding back like a wave, and I stumbled back, slamming the door shut. No… this couldn’t be happening. Not again. The past I’d tried to bury was clawing its way out, bringing its ugly head right in my own home.

I don’t know how long I stood there, leaning against the door, heart pounding, until the first light of morning broke over the trees. Steading myself, I grabbed the chain from where it lay coiled beside Scout’s bed. My fingers clenched around the cold metal, a bitter taste filling my mouth as I made my way back.

I cracked the door open and peeked inside. Riley—no, whatever he was—was lying still, the strange fur gone, looking human again.

I moved quietly, tying the chain to the bedpost and securing it around his neck.

My hands were steady, but I couldn't shake the tension coiling in my gut. I took a seat on the chair by at the end of the bed, waiting, the knife already tucked in my waistband, just in case.

The first groan from him broke the silence, and before he could fully come to his senses, I was on him, straddling his hips, the knife pressing into his throat as his eyes flickered open, confusion and shock flashing across his face.

"I should kill you," I said, my voice low and deadly, though my hand trembled slightly.

His eyes locked onto mine, but he didn't move, just breathed, chest rising and falling beneath me and his grey eyes moving back and forth, flickering with a confusion that twisted something in my gut.

“Marcus?” His voice was soft, almost broken, the name a question, a plea.

Anger flared hot in my veins. Marcus. Whoever he was, I wasn’t him. I wasn’t anyone’s fucking memory. My grip tightened as I pressed my hand hard on his chest, bringing the blade closer, so close it grazed his skin, leaving a thin red line just to make him understand.

“I’m not Marcus,” I spat out, letting the words sink in, sharp as the knife in my hand. “And I know what you are, wolf boy.”

I leaned in close, voice dropping low, as my gaze burned into his. "And I am going to kill you.”