<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#bfbfbf">His lower jaw still tingled when he came to again, his thoughts spinning around the heavy fog that lingered still in his head. Flashes of red memory swam in front of his eyes from behind closed lids that had the man jerking up in his own bed with a sheen of sweat coating his upper torso and face. The thick muscles roped across his biceps, expanded across his chest, flexed with the lingering impulse to hunt, to strike. Where his hands rested at his sides, his fingers curled into his palms to form fists, his knuckles turning white and his jaw clenching as he fought the beasts that fought for instinctual control through his own blood stream. The man wanted desperately to win, but Ian had at least six known strands of lycanthropy surging through his blood stream fighting for dominance. <br/>
<br/>
<br/>
It was shocking that the clash of cells hadn’t killed him yet.<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
His eyes popped open with the memory of the boy’s tear streaked face fading in his mind’s eye. At first, he prayed for it to be a nightmare, but with the way his own muscles burned, stressed from the recent shift in shape, he knew subconsciously that it wasn’t at all. He didn’t have to turn his head to know that he had dragged the young man into the condo and tucked him in underneath the comforter while the effects of the anti-venom ran its course. And, of course, to see if the <i> other </i>thing had taken ahold of Daxon Ripley.<br/>
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<br/>
Ian groaned as he watched the fan above him create shadows across his ceiling and bounce them across a room fit for the bachelor that occupied it. His years of medical school hadn’t quite paid off just yet the years of accumulated debt would haunt him well into his career. The mindset that people had that fresh surgeons walked out of medical school and their years of residency already rolling in enough money to buy a posh new porche was a delusion. Unless the extra years were tacked on to specialize in something hyper specific, general surgeons that occupied an ER didn’t break bank until they were about forty. Dr. Callaghan had stupidly invested in the car parked haphazardly in the lot early, thinking that he would be rolling in the six figures sooner rather than later.<br/>
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<br/>
His condo, as a result, had a “minimalist” look to it, the rooms furnished like something out of an ad for Furniture To Go – because chances are, that’s exactly what the man had done to furnish the place. The bed they both lay on was covered with a blue down comforter over crisp white sheets now stained with sweat from both men. Two pillows, one under each head, with two more lying haphazardly on the beige carpet below were the only things occupying the four poster king that had come with two adjacent bedside tables and matching lamps. A chest of drawers was settled against the opposite wall, which completed the furnishings in the room aside from the doors that unfolded into the master bathroom. There were no photographs, no artwork on the walls. Not even an alarm clock by his bed. Only a simple phone charger that he hadn’t bothered hooking his phone up to while his body recuperated.<br/>
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<br/>
After what seemed like hours – when he knew that it had only been minutes – he finally rolled and hefted himself up into a sitting position on the edge of the bed. His hands clapped against his bare thighs and his head hung down for a few seconds before he dragged in a hard breath, lifted his heads, and ran all ten fingers through the short dark hair on his head. This was his way of avoiding the inevitable, for his next move was to push himself forward until his feet hit carpet, his body finally turning to look down at the form of Daxon Ripley curled on his side, shaking from the fever that took him. Cursing under his breath, Ian reached over to turn on the lamp on his side of the bed to illuminate the pale features of the other male. Padding over to the other side of the bed with the easy grace that came with his various genetic dispositions, Ian dipped down once he was at Daxon’s side to get a better look at his face. Boyishly handsome features were contorted with pain. Tentatively but without fear, Ian reached out to plod two fingers between the young man’s lips to part them so that he could get a better look inside his mouth.<br/>
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<br/>
The hollowed points that protruded from his gums said everything that Ian needed to know to confirm what the pit of his stomach was already telling him. He cursed abruptly, his upper lip turning into a snarl as he pulled his hand back to squeeze it into a fist. Anger seethed across the doctor’s handsome features – but not at the boy. At himself for allowing this to happen. His lack of control would be his ultimate undoing; one of the reasons why he refused any kind of normal relationship. No, Daxon had meant to be just another pretty face he wined and dined for a while, with an after mint of heady sex on the side to help satiate the especially lonely nights. The free meals and bump and grind in this very bed was about as much as any man – or the occasional woman – would ever get from him, despite their best efforts.<br/>
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<br/>
Relaxing his hand, he extended it again and brushed the back of his hand against Daxon’s sweaty forehead. Only he didn’t need the feel test to feel the heat that radiated off him in waves. <i>So. </i>The change was on him so soon, triggered not by the light of a full moon as the legends suggested, but by pure predatory instinct. Without ever wanting to, Ian had managed to change the other male's life for the rest of his life. With the guilt now weighing heavily on him, Ian drew himself back so that he could retreat into the kitchen.<br/>
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<br/>
He was going to go old fashioned while he waited on the change to full occur. He brought back to the bedroom a damp cloth that he placed over Daxon's forehead once he had pried him from his fetal position to roll him over. The cool and damp would help with the fever, but so would the an acetaminophen that he worked down his throat with a pair of fingers and a glass of water. He propped up the back of his head and used two fingers to part his lips while the other dipped the glass of water enough that it slid down his throat. The same two fingers worked his throat so that the water slid down the right passageway, the pills having been ground up into a bitter powder. He didn't have an IV on hand here, which would make this process challenging, especially with what came next.<br/>
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<br/>
~~~<br/>
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<br/>
Ian was in the shower when the first bout of vomiting began. The first night, the boy had slept fitfully through the fever that claimed him. Reduced but not broken, he had sweated through the comforter tucked around him to prevent chills. Ian hadn't slept beside him after the first time, instead claiming his couch. Heightened senses ingrained into him let him know when the young man stirred more than just shifting around in the bed. This time, he heard the retching over the spray of hot water. He left the bathroom without drying off and barely managed to wrap a towel around his hips. He towed his bathroom trash can out with him and grasped the boy by the nape of his neck as he curled over the bed to heave his insides out.<br/>
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<br/>
“You're going to be fine. You <i>better </i>be fine,” he snarled out as he watched Daxon's body convulse with the spasms.<br/>
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<br/>
He had to call out of work the next day, claiming that he had come down with the flu. His other life was more of a problem than his mundane one; the sick claim wouldn't work on the various groups around the city that sought him out. Especially not the pride of lions that demanded his attention – and presence – more than any of the others. Most he could evade, but it was Miles that kept a steady stream of texts coming to his phone.<br/>
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<i>That ass wasn't that good, Callaghan. You need to check in. </i><br/>
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Followed by, <i>You need to respond to me now before I just come over there.</i><br/>
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Until Ian finally caved to the texting demands. His hesitation was supreme as he lingered over the bed where Daxon now moaned and thrashed, racked with pain – and most likely hunger. <br/>
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<i>I need you to bring me something raw and preferably alive. A cat or guinea pig will do. It's an emergency – be discreet.</i><br/>
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<br/>
Once the text was sent out to his beta lion, it was back to a waiting game to see when Daxon would come to.</span>