A slap on the back from Black makes me turn with a low growl.

He grins at me, completely unfazed by my aggression. “Time to go, your grace.” His grin widens, crinkling his blue eyes that are a slighter lighter shade than my brother's ocean blue.

I groan. “Don’t call me that,” I growl, feeling myself weakening the longer I stand. I hope it is just the recovery efforts of my body—but somehow with how my luck's been going lately, I don't believe my hope.

He sends me a wink. I almost growl at him again—but what’s the point? He shifts my arm over his shoulders to bear some of my weight as we limp towards the Berserk.

I lean on him heavily, my body feeling less and less normal. I feel both cold and hot, as if the silver is still rushing through my veins.

I shove through the discomfort, but my breath is tinged by brief gasps I can't help. My head throbs with each step.

Just walk, idiot. Walk, my infernal internal voice says.

Now is not the time. Be quiet, I hiss back, my body feeling more weighty with every step.

“Zephora, something's wrong with our Shifter.” Concern tinges Black’s voice and makes it end in a snap of his slightly pointed molars.

She comes over and places a hand on my forehead. I flinch at the coldness of her hand.

“He’s burning up,” she says.

Thanks for stating the obvious, kitty.

She takes off the bandage wrapped around my chest and takes the clean ones I’d been gripping in a fist.

I glance down at her gasp to find that the edges of the stab wound are tinged in red, and the veins leading to it are raised and swollen. The broken stitches stick out from around the raised and swollen edges. It wasn't like that yesterday when Morgana checked it, even if it hadn't healed enough to take out the stitches. The pond water must have been worse for me than even the cats.

“Not again,” I bite out through gritted teeth. I’m tired of being wounded and unable to support my own body weight. This should be healed by now, silver or no.

"Should've known better than to trust someone else with the bandages." Zephora sends a pointed glare at the other woman in the group.

"I figured if he died, he died," the other woman says with a smug grin.

Black hisses something unintelligible.

“Essie, grab the yarrow and salts from my bag.” Zephora points to a bag hanging on a tree, her voice tight and clipped.

The girl gives a nod and races off, the seriousness on her face at odds with her chubby cheeks and kind gaze.

She should be home playing with dolls, not out here on patrol. Despite cubs gaining their extra strength and ability to phase at the young age of seven, I don't believe they should start dangerous apprenticeships at such a young age—perhaps because I know exactly what happens to a young mind and how it breaks one to be in such conditions at an age when one should be nurtured and protected.

But such is the way of the Were.

“It’s infected. Why aren’t you healing?” Zephora asks through clenched teeth.

I clench my own teeth as she slices open the rest of the stitches with a pointed fingernail to let the infection drain.

“I don’t know,” I reply. “Was infected by silver—over a week ago, but that should be out of my system...” I trail off as she douses the wound with ale. I squeeze a rock in my fist to keep from lashing out and hurting someone.

The rock slowly collapses in my grip before giving with a pop—I reach for another.

Black holds my shoulders, giving me a tight-lipped nod of support, his tightened gaze watching me warily but with sympathy.

Essie returns, and Zephora packs the wound with herbs and salts that make it alternate between itching and burning.

She pours one last thing over it that makes the pain more acute before slowly tapering off into a dull throb.

She puts something to my lips. “Drink.”

I don’t. I know this will make me either extremely drowsy or put me out like a light. I won’t have my senses dulled around these Werecats; not when trust hasn't been earned.

Then why did you trust the villagers? the voice asks in the back of my head. I have no answers for it, so I choose to not reply.

“Open his mouth,” Zephora says in a tight voice, her forehead wrinkled in a scowl. Pa used to tell Barry if he didn't lose the scowl, his face would be stuck like that. I think Zephora is the prime example that Barry needed as a child to keep a smile on his face.

I shove up with my hands and throw Black off, but just barely. He’s as strong as an ox, despite his lean stature.

“What is it with healers and drugs?!” I scramble back, attempting to get some distance between them and me to keep The Beast from lashing out. “No. You will respect my choice in this. I will not be drugged.” A growl escapes my lips, spittle leaking between my teeth like some deranged animal.

Black stands and dusts himself off, blue eyes flashing. “You are one tough jrukthan... you know that?” he says with a disarming grin, speaking of the tiny lizard-like creature with six wings whose strength is that of an animal ten times its size.

I scoot against a tree. “I will rest on top of him.” I point at the Berserk. “Without being drugged,” I say while attempting to shove back the wolf trying to push out and kill those threatening us.

The rage grows behind the bars I keep it in. I shove it down further, keeping my mental walls tighter than The Pits, afraid that if I give it a hair, it will destroy those around me in a heartbeat of time that would leave my guilt to kill me in a slow and agonizing death.

Zephora's arched black eyebrows climb her pale forehead, and her hands twitch as if she wants to throttle me. “You’re as stubborn as an ass. Would you please hold still as I attempt to keep you from dying?”