Lovers' Tussle by India-Jean Louwe

thank-you sent to God and every other divine being had been How? Tienna’s emerald eyes, jeweled further with diamond-studded teardrops, had blinked just once before she’d turned and fled. He’d stood at the open doorway of his opulent Grosvenor Square town house with his brother, who was supposed to be dead by his hand, in his arms, and watched the angel who’d brought him back fly away, once again beyond his reach. Her flee had been punctuated by the growls of her companions before they also beat a hasty retreat. And since then, nothing.
    Tienna had not come back. She threw a wall up against any communication he had tried to form with her in her mind. He hadn’t the freedom to hunt her down due to his responsibility that tied him to his house. But for a person miraculously brought back from the grips of death, Roth had yet to stir.
    The first day, he bathed his brother’s luxurious coat, stained as deeply as his own soul, until the fur had been once again transformed into the prolific sheen that could have rivaled even the brushed down coat of a prized gray. Yet while he had restored Roth’s mighty appearance to its former glory and dignity, the hue of meek, weak stillness tainted his aura. But that had come after he stood and simply stared at Roth in shock. The open wounds were still evident, but in the form of scars—fully sealed. Not a trace of blood seeped into his white sheets. How was that possible?
    He had lingered the rest of the day by his brother’s side and the night that had followed, fending off sleep while dribbling wine infused with his own blood down Roth’s throat with a teaspoon. His brother needed nutrition, and blood offered more than anything else ever could from this world. The second day had passed with the repeat of the ritual bathing and endless waiting. And yet again there had been no satisfaction for his efforts beyond the warm breath he frequently tested for behind Roth’s bone-dry nostrils.
    Then he’d reached the afternoon of the third day, and finally there’d been a change in Roth. Sadly, it had not been a noticeable improvement in his condition. The wolf form had simply melted away, leaving in its wake Roth’s dark, naked human profile. Aiden had remained by his side after throwing a sheet liberally over the now scorching body, expecting him to open his eyes anytime. That anytime, however, had elapsed into one hour and then another until the sun had sunk so far west it had left his world in shadows. There had been no further development, at least nothing with regard to Roth.
    He, however, was not faring very well. The strain he’d placed on his body was taking its toll. His stomach rumbled like thunderous clouds for fresh, warm flesh, his shrunken veins screamed their thirst for even a droplet of sustaining blood, and sleep threatened each blink of his eyes. Furthermore, while he had paid careful attention to bathing Roth’s body, keeping him infection free, he had afforded little consideration to his own. He stank so badly it was a miracle on its own that Roth did not rise simply on the pungent, offensive fumes he emanated.
    The excitement of this miracle had long since worn off. The questions he held had faded into the void that now occupied his mind. The only thing he kept chanting over and over, like a mantra echoing in an empty chamber, was “Roth, please wake up.” But Roth did not respond, and neither did the Gods. There would be no escaping this sin. His brother was not going to suddenly recover. He turned and eyed the decanter carefully laid on a table at Roth’s bedside. Perhaps he should increase the blood portion to the potion.
    As his canines exposed themselves beneath his upper lip, ready to slit another gash in his already scarred forearm, he detected movement. It was just a slight flutter of eyelids, but his heightened wolf sense caught it as easily it would a stomping elephant.
    “Roth?” He shook him gently. No answer. His shakes became less