Chapter 62

Rowena

“Rowena, have you been tested for Wolf’s Fury?”

I let out an involuntary scoff at Emma’s words. “Wolf’s Fury?” I asked. “What makes you think I could have that?”

She shrugged and leaned back in her chair, albeit still keeping her voice low so as not to be overheard. “Your symptoms sound like some of the early signs I’ve seen on the news,” she said. “Apparently, it starts with fevers and chills, followed by loss of stability, and then…”

“I know,” I said. I had seen the news too, even though I hated looking at it. “Loss of appetite, mood swings, migraines with aura…”

“And then psychosis,” Emma added. “Sudden psychosis.”

I shuddered just at the thought. The way Wolf’s Fury just suddenly went from relatively mild flu-like symptoms to sudden psychosis, marked with severe aggression, sounded terrifying. But I felt fine now, truly.

“Well, my symptoms are gone,” I said as coolly as I could muster. “And besides, we get tested at the checkpoints every morning anyway. I would have come back positive by now if I had it.”

“Still.” Emma stabbed her pasta with her fork and leveled me with a stern gaze. “It’s not a bad idea to get checked out, just to be safe.”

Just to be safe.

At first, I had wanted to brush Emma’s words off; and I did, for most of the remainder of the day. I felt perfectly fine, aside from the pain in my ankle and the sore spot on my head where the stitches had been.

But over the course of the day, Emma’s words continued to nag at the back of my mind like an incessant buzz. The more I dwelled on the strange symptoms I had had on the day of my fall, the more I wondered if Emma was right.

Maybe I should get checked out properly. Just to be safe.

After my final class that day, I had finally made my decision. I made my way over to the combat manager;s office on my crutches, the familiar ache in my ankle keeping my pace slow. Steeling myself, I pulled the door open only to find that Heather was not there.

Thank god, I thought to myself as I hobbled in.

Instead, a tall, wiry man with cropped, partially-balding dark hair stood behind the counter, his back to me as he rifled through some paperwork. I recognized him before he even turned around; he was the physician, Dr. Reynolds, that Heather had hired.

Or rather, the physician that Heather’s parents had hired in order to help her get into the championship.

“Excuse me,” I called out when he didn’t turn to see me.

Finally, Dr. Reynolds turned around, his face impassive yet pleasant enough. He regarded me with a clinical sort of detachment, his eyes sweeping over the crutches that were currently propping me upright.

“Can I help you?”

I cleared my throat. “Yes, actually. I was hoping to get tested for… for Wolf’s Fury.” The words felt heavy on my tongue. I hoped that I wouldn’t make him worried enough to cause a scene.

The physician’s expression didn’t falter, but I noticed the slightest tightening around his mouth at the mention of the virus. With a curt nod, he gestured for me to follow him through the door behind the counter and into the clinic.

The exam room was dimly lit, reeking faintly of antiseptic. I hadn’t been in here for more than a minute since Heather had gotten me kicked out, and honestly, I missed it. Even though my little closet office was my own, it didn’t compare to the real thing.

“Take a seat,” Dr. Reynolds said, patting the exam table. I settled onto the padded table with some effort, placing my crutches aside as the physician retrieved his supplies briskly.

“I’m going to need to ask you a few questions,” he stated, his tone clipped yet not unkind. “To gauge your symptoms and determine if testing is truly necessary.”

I nodded and braced myself, unsure of what to expect. But his questions were fairly routine at first—about any recent travel, people I had been in close contact with, if I had been feeling nauseous or feverish.

I answered vaguely when I could, maintaining a professional demeanor despite the faint sheen of sweat that broke out across my brow at the questions. I told him about my bout of dizziness on the day of my fall, but made sure to punctuate it with the fact that I felt better now.

“I just want to be safe for my fellow students,” I said, mustering a small smile.

Dr. Reynolds returned the smile and nodded. “Of course. That’s very good of you.”

Over the next few minutes, Dr. Reynolds went through the routine of testing: he swabbed the inside of my nose, dipped the q-tip into a vial of testing solution, and left it to cure.

“Now then,” he said, returning to me. “I see you’ve got an ankle injury. Would you like me to take a look?”

I shrugged and nodded at once. “Sure.”

“Has it been hurting?” he asked as he crouched down in front of me, pulling down my sock.

“It has,” I said. “Not more than expected, though.”

“I see.” For a few moments, he inspected my injury. Then, the physician’s cool fingers closed around my ankle, stroking along the swollen, mottled skin. I tensed instinctively at the uninvited touch.

“Does it hurt here?” he asked, giving my leg the slightest squeeze.

“A bit,” I managed through gritted teeth.

His cool fingertips continued their path up the length of my calf, kneading into the soft flesh. They continued moving upwards, past my knee, and toward my inner thigh. I shifted uncomfortably, the hairs on the back of my neck prickling.

“And here?” he asked, slowly raising his gaze to meet mine. I felt a bit sick when I saw the almost husky look in his eyes, and the way his tongue darted out for the briefest of moments to lick his lips.

Gently, I pushed his hand away and leaned back, forcing a tight smile. “I’m alright. Do you have the results of the test?”

The physician seemed faintly amused by my discomfort, the hint of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. But nonetheless, he pulled away and picked up the vial from the table, checking its contents before turning back to me.

“You’re negative. No traces of the virus.”

I exhaled shakily, equal parts relieved and unnerved by the strange glint in his eye.

“But,” he continued smoothly, “by all means, feel free to come back if you experience any other symptoms. My door is always open to you.”

“Um… Thank you, Doctor,” I said before carefully sliding off of the table.

I couldn’t get out of that office fast enough after that. Fumbling with my crutches, I hobbled as swiftly as I could towards the exit, desperate to put distance between myself and that unsettling man.

Bile rose in my throat as my mind raced, replaying his lingering touch, the predatory gleam as his gaze had raked over me. I was so distracted that I didn’t notice the foot lashing out until it connected squarely with one of my crutches.

The crutch skittered out from beneath me and I gasped, careening sideways. I just managed to catch myself against the wall before hitting the floor, clutching at the bricks for support.

When I lifted my gaze, a figure was disappearing around the far corner of the hallway. A small figure, unmistakably female… could it have been Heather, lying in wait?

Fury blazed inside of me at the thought. It had to be her. Who else would kick my crutch out from under me if not for her or one of her posse?

Gritting my teeth, I pushed away from the wall and hobbled forward as quickly as I could, determined to catch her and confront her. I rounded the corner, opening my mouth to call after her.

Only to smack directly into a solid wall of muscle.

“Woah, Rowena,” Eric said, looping his arm around my waist to keep me upright. His blue eyes flashed in the light of the sun streaming in through the skylights, and he smirked at me. “Take it easy.”