Page 9 of Breaking His Exile

“No.”

“Lies are a waste of air.”

“It’s not a lie. I don’t need a hospital.” She took another slow breath. And another, her breathing evening out with every exhale. “And even if I did, I wouldn’t go. They’ll be looking.”

Smart. She was smarter than he’d given her credit for.

“Then let me check them,” he said.

Her gaze flicked to him, sharp and guarded. “What?”

“Your ribs. I need to know if anything’s broken.” He kept his voice level. “I’m not going to touch you without permission.”

She studied him a long beat. Reading him again.

“Fine,” she said.

He pulled the truck over onto a flat patch of dirt where two logging roads crossed, killed the engine. The sudden quiet was enormous. No road noise, no engine, just the tick of cooling metal and the wind through the pines and the sound of her breathing, still too fast but steadier than it had been.

He turned in his seat and flicked on the overhead light. “Which side?”

“Left.”

“Shirt up.”

She hesitated. Then she pulled the hem of her shirt up slowly, wincing as the fabric dragged across her skin. The light caught the ink along her side—flowers and music notes trailing down toward her hip. Below it, old scars. Small, round, spaced in a line, faded to silver.

Some fucker had stabbed out his cigarettes on her smooth skin.

He tightened his hand into a fist before he caught himself. He shook it out and focused on her ribs.

The bruising was bad. Deep purple spreading out from under the lowest rib, mottled with green at the edges. Fresh. He pressed the flat of his thumb along the lowest one, light, feeling for the give that would tell him something was broken.

She hissed through her teeth.

“Breathe out.”

She did. He pressed again, firmer this time, working his way up the line of the ribs. The fifth one had a catch in it that made his jaw tighten. He felt the slight shift under his thumb when she exhaled.

“Cracked,” he said. “Fifth one. Maybe the sixth.”

“Great.”

“You’ll live.” He pulled his hand back and turned off the overhead light. The cab went dark again, just the faint glow of the dash. “Don’t cough. Don’t laugh. Don’t get hit again.”

“Your bedside manner is a real gift.”

He almost smiled. Almost. He killed the impulse before it could reach his face and turned the key in the ignition. The engine caught and the headlights cut back into the trees.

She let her shirt fall back down and pressed her hand flat over the bruise. “So what’s the plan, Evander? Where exactly are we going?”

He pulled back onto the logging road. The scanner on the dash crackled to life, and a dispatcher’s voice came through the static.

“All units, be advised. BOLO for a white Ford F-250, Montana plates, partial Tango-Charlie-Seven, last seen northbound on County Twelve near the Dead Marshall. Armed suspect, considered dangerous. May be holding a female against her will. Female described as white, blonde, approximately twenties⁠—”

Fuck. They’d moved faster than he expected.

He killed the scanner. The silence after was worse.