I sighed, looking at Lucian standing there hunched over and broken, the metallic scent of blood clinging to him like a second skin. He looked like he'd been through hell and back, which wasn't far from the truth.
His white hair was matted with dried sweat and dirt, his clothes torn and stained with blood, some of it his own from where he'd clearly been hitting himself, and some of it from whatever he'd fed on in the woods.
The sight of him like this made my chest ache.
This was Lucian, who used to be so put-together, so controlled. Now he looked like a wild thing, dangerous and unpredictable and so very lost.
"I'm going to get you some fresh clothes," I said, making my voice as gentle as possible. "Come on, let's go inside the house."
Lucian shook his head immediately, taking a step back from me. "No, Maeve. I can't. What if I lose control again? What if I smell your blood and I—" He cut himself off, his hands clenching into fists so tight his knuckles went white.
