Moving when he did, inserting himself between the upir and the vargulf, blocking Roman’s path … Peter told himself it had been a smart move – it was the only thing that kept him from thinking he’d completely lost his mind.
Because standing there, in front of Christina, protecting her – he got to see, to witness, Roman’s fangs elongate and the shadows cross his face. Again, it made his blood run cold – because he knew, right then, that his old friend had become full-blown upir. Without a doubt.
He drew a deep breath, exhaling slowly, feeling his tension continue to well within him. Roman’s turn had happened without him, as he expected it would – but Peter had the feeling that this wasn’t the end. No, this most certainly was not the end – he could still feel it, deep within his soul. There was unfinished business.
How can you protect her? With everything she’s done? All the fucking people she’s killed?
The shout had been sudden but clear and it lingered on the air in the silence that followed … several beats, and he didn’t say anything … didn’t add anything just yet. Peter hadn’t realized it, but he was shaking, trembling from head to toe … stress, fear, the fact that the blood in his veins felt it had turned to ice. “She’s like this because of me,” he added, gasping for air as his heart pounded fiercely in his chest. “It’s my fault – her, the girls, Shelley, fucking all of it. If I hadn’t … if I’d never fucking come here, none of this would have happened. None of it!”
It wasn’t something most people thought about, not the sort of indepth analysis one would make upon just glancing at Peter’s life – but there it was, more than just the surface. The wolf was standing at the precipice of a psychological break … and perhaps he’d already fallen into the massive crack that had formed along the faultline.
He was numb from the very core, breaths ragged and rapid as he whispered to himself, closing his eyes for only a second, “I can’t … I can’t …”
He huffed like the angry, paranoid wolf that he was, suspecting Roman of having another agenda – because, yes, he knew about that gift, and was often wary of the upir’s gift … it was the reason why he avoided eye contact right then … because he had a feeling, if he looked, then Roman would ‘persuade’ him to put the glass away … but no, instead, as though to illustrate his point, he pressed the shard a little harder to his throat, nicking the skin and allowing a small trickle of blood to stain the clear glass and his fingertips.
“I mean it,” he insisted through clenched teeth.
Peter had nothing … nothing left to lose but his own life. He’d let this girl eat his face – he wasn’t afraid to cut his own throat. If that was his only bargaining chip against Roman, then he was ready to play.
He squeezed it a little tighter between his fingers, lips pressing together hard as he exhaled rapidly through his nostrils … and then … suddenly jerked the glass down and away from his throat, gaze locked on the floor for a beat, then lifting his arm to his side, holding it for another two before simply opening his hand and letting the shard fall to the floor with a light clink.
Again, he was still and silent for several beats – several simple beats of an erratic heart – before he finally managed a whisper.
Peter was tired, and it showed as he moved toward Christina in the corner, “Sorry about the mess,” he added in a mutter to the upir before he lowered himself slowly to sit next to the girl, pressing his back to the wall. “I’ll … clean it up … later …” he murmured, turning his attention to Christina. “Are you okay? Do you need me to look at those … or …” he was referring to all the cuts she had received from the shattered glass.
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