The bruise on my ribs was still yellow-green a week out. It should've been gone.
I stood in front of the mirror in my room and pressed a thumb into it just to check, and it still hurt, which it shouldn't have.
A week-old bruise on a lycan is a memory. This one was taking its time like I'm some human.
"Great," I told the mirror. "Falling apart on schedule."
The split on my eyebrow from where Rhys had opened it up had scabbed and cracked twice already.
My wolf wasn't healing me right. Same reason it wouldn't sync when I tried to shift—something in there was still off the rails, still not fully mine, and it turned out a wolf that won't run also won't knit you back together the way it's supposed to.
I pulled my shirt down over the ribs and figured that was a problem for a day when I had fewer of them.
