“We will.” Because Cyrus would die before he ever let this happen again. His mate would be safe in Manhattan for the rest of her days. His people would know peace again. He’d work to make that happen until he drew his very last breath.
****
Betsy was asleep on the couch. She’d left the shades open in the living room, and the lights from the street illuminated her resting figure in colored shadows that made her look, for a moment, unreal, as though she might disappear into the darkness of the colorful display from outside if he blinked.
He took a deep breath, drawing in her scent, which confirmed to him that she was real. Cyrus walked closer, and she didn’t stir. Her mouth was slightly open, her tongue pressed against her teeth. He wished he could have been here to hold her while she cried, the scent of her distress still evident in the room. Her hair was knotted and wet. She must have showered before she changed her clothes. He’d have the bloody ones burned so she never had to look at them and remember.
Cyrus’ gaze fell to her hands. They were still shifted into semi-wolf form. It was so amazing she could do that. He couldn’t. Cyrus either shifted or he didn’t, and as an Alpha, he could manage to shift when it wasn’t a full moon, but most of the pack would never even be able to manage that. The ability to change at will showed the strength to be an Alpha. It was a rather big sign of a pup’s future.
Betsy had managed to half-shift her hands, but she was obviously not able to get shift them back. He placed his fingers on top of hers and stared at them for a second.
Turn back.
Betsy’s hands glimmered before they shifted back to their human form. He smiled at the sight. Cyrus would never be able to do all the things he needed to do, but that, at least, he could manage.
She stirred, her lids fluttering open. “Hi.”
“Hello there.” He smoothed his hand over her forehead. She felt warm from sleep. In a kind world, he’d get to pick her up, carry her to the bed, and snuggle in for the rest of the night. But they had things to talk about before then, and he wasn’t sure he could sleep anyway. Truth was he might never rest easy again.
“I wanted to wait up for you, but I guess I crashed.”
“Perfectly normal after the adrenaline surge.”
She sat up, and he moved until he could position himself right next to her. Sleep might be out of the question, but he needed her presence. She wasn’t the only one who needed to come down from the stress of the night. His blood still boiled too hot.
“Cyrus, that’s the problem.” She rubbed her forehead. “I can’t remember any of it. Something happened. Kyra is dead. Did I do that?”
“What? No, you didn’t.” How could she even think that?
“One second she was telling me I couldn’t fight, that she would protect me, and the next thing I remember, Liana was shaking me. There was blood all over me, and Kyra was dead.”
“Not from your hand.” Cyrus wished he had known she been worried about this earlier. He could have reassured her before he sent her home. “Kyra died from a gut wound delivered to her by a sharp knife. From what you’re telling me, she was probably protecting you if she made you stay behind her.”
He’d always admired Kyra, but now she would forever hold a place of honor in his memory. The woman had gone down protecting his mate. That kind of sacrifice could never be paid back.
“But I don’t know what I did. I must have done something. My hands—claws—were covered in blood.” She sounded so forlorn that he pulled her onto his lap.
“Betsy, princess, you killed the woman who stabbed her. That’s what you did. That’s what Liana told me. And then you were lost to the haze, and, thank goodness, she brought you back from it. Most of the time, we don’t suffer the haze when we’re wearing our human skin. That’s a new werewolf problem. Teenagers suffer for years. But you’re rapidly catching up, and maybe because of your ability to shift part of your body, it triggered the response.”
“I killed the woman who killed Kyra.” She said the words into his shirt, and he stroked her back.
“How do you feel about that?” He knew how he felt—tremendous relief and pride. But Betsy still needed to adjust to all of this. Humans took the repercussions of killing very seriously. They didn’t see the necessity of it the way werewolves did. The woman had killed Kyra. Of course, she’d had to die.
“Good.” She sniffed, pulling back. “Right. Justified. Glad I did it even if I can’t remember it. Cyrus, does that make me a sociopath?”
“No.” He put his hands on the sides of her head. “It makes you one of us. You protected my people tonight. Thank you, Betsy, thank you. I’m sorry this happened to you. It never should have.”