She could tell by his face—all taut with tension—and the way he was holding himself. Usually he watched her run the soapy cloth over his chest and shoulders and…other parts of him, but this time he’d turned his gaze away, and his shoulders seemed stiff. It didn’t take her long to figure out what he was doing. He’d pinched the sheet in with both of his arms so she couldn’t get beneath it. It was stupid of him, of course it was, but he’d done it anyway and now she had to either wrestle with him or act as though half a job was enough. She knew it wouldn’t be. Whatever they’d done to him this time—it had covered him in great streaks of brownish, crusted blood. And though the wounds that had leaked said blood were now completely gone, she had to get the remains of it off him. She had to. Werewolf healing didn’t make you magically clean and comfortable. And that was the real kicker. The thought of him being uncomfortable, of him festering in his bed all covered in the evidence of what they’d done, each wound like a push pin sticking into his skin with a note attached—Here’s where they hit me with a crowbar so hard it split the skin.
