I Rejected My Obsessive Werebeast novel Chapter 95

For three days, the little house held us in its quiet warmth. During the day I helped the auntie with simple chores–washing dishes, folding laundry, changing the bandages on Silas’s back. The wounds had stopped bleeding. but any sharp movement still pulled at the scabs. Heavy lifting was out of the question. He was reduced to sitting by the fire while I moved around the kitchen, which he clearly found more frustrating than the injury itself

Away from the city. Away from the case, the online rumours, the crowds of tourists. Just the two of us in a small, warm room.

In the evenings we sat side by side by the fireplace, watching the mountains beyond the window–washed clean by the flood, green glistening under pale light. The fire popped and shifted between us.

After nearly dying in that water, something between us had settled into a new shape. The fevered intensity of our early days had cooled into something steadier. Something that felt like solid ground. At night, lying in the same bed, Silas didn’t reach for me the way he used to. He just held me–arms wrapped around my waist, face buried in my hair, breathing slow and even.

We didn’t need many words. Just being close was enough.

Sometimes we talked about the flood.

Silas told me, quietly, that when the water hit–when the wall cracked–he’d had only one thought.

“Keep you alive. No matter what.”

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I reached behind me and touched the bandaged gauze on his back. My fingers traced the edge of the tape. A wave of fear washed through me–the memory of how close it had been. And underneath it, something warmer. Something fierce.

“I know,” I said. “I know you would.”

My phone caught fragments of signal on the third evening. Messages trickled in.

Kane: You two alive? Heard about the flood. Respond when you can.

An email from the Department of Justice, subject line clipped and official Reminder – Public Hearing in 3 Days.

I stared at the date on the screen. Didn’t move to pack.

Silas’s hand found mine. His fingers laced through mine, warm and steady.

“No rush.” His eyes were soft. “Stay a few more days. Let your body recover. Let the wound settle.” He glanced toward the window, where the last light was fading over the mountains. “Then we go back and face all of it.”

Outside, the world was still waiting. The hearing, the case, the noise–none of it had stopped.

‘But in this small warm room, with the fire burning low and his hand in mine, we had a few more days of stillness. A pocket of peace carved out of the wreckage.

And for now, that was enough.

The days in the small town house passed slowly, like water finding its

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way around stones.

Bach evening the fireplace flickered and danced, casting warm shadows across the walls. I changed the dressing on Silas’s back on schedule. peeling back the old gauze with careful fingers. The wounds were scabbing over now–rough, dark patches of new skin forming over the torn flesh. But any sharp movement, any reach for something overhead, still pulled at the scabs and drew a quiet hiss from him.

We stayed away from the noise of the outside world. Most of our time was spent in the quiet of the little house. Sometimes I helped the auntie tend the yard–pulling weeds, sweeping debris left by the flood. In the evenings we sat by the window and looked out at the mountains, scarred and stripped bare where the floodwaters had torn through.

After the flood, something between us had shifted. The fevered urgency was gone. What remained was steadier. Quieter. Most of the time we didn’t need to speak. Just sitting side by side, shoulders touching, was enough.

But the numbers on my phone kept counting down.

The hearing. Three days. Two days now.

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