I barely sleep since I don’t want to wake up too late and miss my chance to eat before whoever is coming arrives. In the end, I finally give up before the sun has even risen.

I shuffle down the stairs and grab a cup of coffee before heading into the living room. The lights are off so I don’t notice that someone is sitting on the couch until they speak.

“Isn’t it difficult for humans to navigate in the dark?”

Not only does the question catch me off guard but the fact that I thought I was alone has been jumping out of my skin. I scream and drop the mug. As hot liquid spills over my feet, the mug shatters spectacularly all over the dining room floor.

I jump back but my prosthetic has no traction on the wet floor and I end up falling forward, my hand coming down on a shard of ceramic.

I hiss and clutch my hand to my chest. It’s too dark to see how bad the cut is but it stings to high heaven. I’m assessing the best way to get up when I am lifted up into the air.

“Fucking ridiculous,” the man holding me grumbles. “How you’ve survived this long truly is a mystery.”

I want to curse them out but I’m not even sure who it is. I know it’s not Kane but it could be literally any other member of the pack, aside from Alpha or Anil. They carry me into the kitchen and set me down on the island.

As they move over to the sink, they flick on the flights. I’m blinded at first but as my eyes adjust, I look down at my hand and gag. A chunk of porcelain about 3 inches long is sticking straight up out of the freshly part below my thumb. I’m not sure how deep it is but it looks like it’s lodged in pretty well.

I look over my shoulder and see an incredibly tall, lanky man leaning over the sink ringing out a dishtowel. When he turns around, I don't recognize him. He’s clean-shaven with a square jaw, a hooked nose, deep-set blue eyes partially hidden by bushy blonde brows, and a set of black-rimmed square glasses.

As I study his face, I realize I’ve seen those glasses before. Before I can stop myself I blurt out, ”Haden?!” The bearded surly doctor who told me he’d prefer me dead is the person who is staying with me now?

I press my hand closer to my chest, unsure if he’s actually going to help me or just make me hurt. He’d already made it clear that my suffering or dying was of no consequence to him.

He stiffens when I shout his name and briskly walks over, grabbing my hand with enough force that I feel the bones in my wrist grind together.

I don’t even have time to scream as he yanks the piece of mug out of my hand and then immediately covers it with the cloth, applying enough pressure that I wonder if he’s going to break my hand as he’s trying to fix it.

I whimper in pain and try to pull away though it’s futile. His grip relaxes enough that I don’t feel like I’m being pulverized and he grumbles, “Like fucking glass.” I can only assume he’s referring to me… in a general sense.

I look away from him and focus on the wall above the stove. Haden looks so much younger without his beard.

Everything in this house is so white. It’s probably modern and chic but I’ve always lived in places with warmth and color; everywhere here just feels sterile and cold.

He grabs my other hand and has me press them together. “Keep the pressure on,” he orders before leaving the kitchen. I do as I’m told and try not to think of the last time I’d had to put pressure on a wound - it had been the only other time I’d seen Haden.

Haden comes back with a bundle of gauze and a bottle of vodka. He doesn’t even ask as he pulls my hand towards him again, removes the towel, and pours the alcohol all over.

“Fuck!” I curse, desperately trying to pull away. He doesn’t even attempt to dry it as he wraps the gauze tightly around before securing it with a knot at the base of my wrist.

He’s grumbling something under his breath. I can’t hear what he’s saying but I know it’s just more insults.

“Jesus, if you hate me so much then don’t fucking help!” This time when I tug, he lets go. I expect more of a fight so I fall backward and catch myself on my cut hand. Pain radiates up to my shoulder and my arm gives out.

I lay on my back, my legs still hanging off the table, and try to catch my breath. My heart is racing and I know I’m a step away from hyperventilating myself into fainting. Haden doesn’t help me up, not that I want him to.

Instead, he scoffs and walks out of the room, turning the light off as he goes. The callousness of the action stills my mind. I’ve experienced hate in my life. I’ve experienced prejudice. In the past few months of living in this godforsaken middle of nowhere packhouse, I’ve been hurt and humiliated and abused. But there’s something different about this. It’s a kind of hate that’s cold and indifferent. It’s so much harder to ward against.

I roll onto my side and stare at the cabinets across from me, willing myself to be brave. Finally, I push myself up and get off the counter. My hand still throbs but I can deal with the pain.

I am amazingly calm as I enter the living room, ready to tell Haden to go fuck himself and get out, but he’s not there.

I sit on the couch and cradle my arm to my chest. I think over the lecture I want to give him. Crappy things in your past don’t excuse present behavior; being hurt by others doesn’t give you the right to do hurt in return, especially to those you have nothing to do with.

But, the truth is that I know that if it were me, I’d be just as unwilling to forgive. After all, I hate him and he wasn’t directly involved in Nia’s murder either; though he’s a lot closer to it than I am to the men who killed his mate decades ago.

I resolve to say something about it when he comes back if he comes back, and he doesn’t disappoint. I’m nodding off on the sofa when the front door opens and shuts with a bang. Haden briskly enters the living room and stops short at the sight of me. The sun has already begun to rise and the room is bathed in the cold morning light.

He tosses a plastic bag at me and it lands beside me on the couch. “Take off the bandage, rinse the wound, and come back down so I can wrap it again.”

I grab the bag with my other hand and pull it into my lap. It’s got a variety of painkillers, a tube of ointment, a bottle of Gatorade, and more gauze. I don’t bother to say thanks as I take the bag upstairs and drop it on my bed.

Unwrapping the bandage he did in the kitchen proves to be harder than anticipated. I end up tugging on the knot which only pulls on my wound. My vision blurs with tears and I growl at the fact that there’s nothing to cut it off with.

I spin around, ready to stomp back downstairs and just do it in the kitchen when I slam into another body.

“God! Must you all be so silent?” I shout and take a step back to put distance between us.

He looks down at me with a less than amused expression and then pushes past me and turns on the tap.

“I’ll do it.”

I extend my arm and let him take it off. He’s surprisingly gentle and adept as he unties the knot and slowly unwinds the fabric. I keep my eyes trained on the wall, careful not to make any sound, as he cleans the wound and rebandages it.

When he finally lets go, I muster the courage to look up at him and say thank you but the expression of disgust on his face causes the words to die in my throat. Instead, I snap, “I get it, alright? Humans, bad! But seriously, you think you’re so great? You’re all a bunch of fucking child killers so get off your high horse, yeah?”

I’m so angry, that I don’t even contemplate the consequences as I stalk past him and out of the bathroom. I’m halfway to the bedroom door when Haden grips my forearm so hard I’m surprised the bone doesn’t snap. As he spins me around, I lose my balance and my knees give out.

As I start falling, I twist to the side so I won’t land on my prosthetic and potentially break it. But, the movement has me roll my other heel painfully. Haden doesn’t let go so I end up hanging by my arm, unable to get my footing.

I claw at his hand with my free one and scream, “Let me go! Fucking asshole!”

He does and I drop to the floor, panting. Pain flares in my ankle and wrist. It’s not even past morning and I already have three more injuries than the night before.

When he doesn’t leave or speak, I try to keep the pain out of my voice as I shout, “I get it! You lost your wife. You’re angry. But you don’t get a free pass to treat people like shit. You think you’re the only one who's ever lost anyone?”

“You seem to have the misconception that a mate and your human concept of marriage are equivalents. Mates can be arranged or found through chance and born of love, but that is where the similarities end. A mate is a soul bonded to your own. Some so much so that you think as one.”

I didn’t expect him to say anything profound and was certain he was going to insult me again. I don’t look up at him and when it’s clear I’m not going to say anything back, he growls and leaves me on the floor of my bedroom.