Page 13 of Dreadful

Gage goes still. He looks back at Rafe over his shoulder. “Hospital?”

“No hospital.” Lola and I land on it at the exact same moment.

All heads turn toward us, and I keep my back straight as I endure the weight of their gazes.

I swipe my tongue along my bottom lip. “No hospital. I can take care of it myself.”

Gage snaps a pair of nitrile gloves from the kit and pulls them on with two clean pops. He works without asking permission—irrigating the wound with saline, the cold liquid running in thin rivulets down my arm and dripping off my elbow onto the concrete floor.

“It’s shallow,” he says, almost to himself. “Caught the edge of you.”

He blots it dry, applies some butterfly bandages and a thin layer of antibiotic ointment, then presses a non-stick pad against the graze and secures it with a wrap of transparent adhesive. His hands are steady in a way that makes me feel vaguely ashamed of how unsteady everything else is.

“It’s going to hurt, but you’ll be alright, Bell.”

“Thank you, Gage,” I murmur.

The garage light is too bright. It wasn’t too bright ten minutes ago. I blink against it and realize my hands have gone cold, which is strange because the rest of me feels like it’s running a low fever. I press my feet flat against the floor and focus on that.

“Good enough for now,” Gage says, smoothing the last edge of the adhesive down.

Behind him, Bishop’s voice cuts across the garage toward Rafe. “She’s all patched up. Start talking, brother.”

Beside me, Lola shifts forward on the cushion and straightens her spine. She catches me looking and tips her chin up slightly, the dried cut along her cheekbone pulling at the corner of her eye when she does.

“I’m fine.” She waves her hand like she’s batting away my concern.

Rafe’s hand finds the small of my back again as everyone peels away from the couch and migrates toward the far end of the garage—the cleared stretch near the workbench where the overhead light is harsher and there’s nowhere comfortable to look. I follow because my feet move when directed.

“You got ten minutes,” Gage says.

Across the space, Bishop stops moving. His hand drags back through his hair, slow, and then drops. He turns toward us, and whatever was burning through him a moment ago has gone somewhere quieter and colder.

My gaze stays locked on Bishop. His shirt is rumpled, his knuckles white where he grips the back of a chair. The sight of him like this tugs at the edge of a memory I can’t afford to revisit right now.

“You with me, Bell?” Gage’s voice is low, meant only for me.

“Yeah.” The word comes out thin.

Lola shifts silently beside me until her arm presses flush against mine from shoulder to elbow. Her entire attention is a weight against my side, reading the tightness in my muscles, the slight tremor I can’t quite suppress.

Across the garage, Bishop’s voice is clipped. “Widowmakers and Devil’s Hand just came inside and opened fire? No warning?”

Rafe leans against the workbench, arms crossed. “Pretty much.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Cruz says quietly, watching Rafe like he’s a puzzle needing to be solved.

I zone out as they start talking about Crowe being the new Devil’s Hand president. My eyes drift from Bishop’s restless hands to the service door we came through. Then the bay door behind us and the button on the wall near the gun safe. I haven’t cataloged exits in this house in weeks. The realization hits me like a missed step on a staircase. This place stopped being a threat. I let it become something else. Something soft.

And now I’m standing in the middle of it, bleeding guilt and waiting for the sharks to catch the scent.

If they find out about Abel, about the deal I made…

Coco’s face flashes behind my eyes, cold and final. Gage’s kindness going flat. Cruz’s calculating stare. Bishop’s disgust.

And Rafe’s resignation. He said he takes care of the family’s messes.

Is that what I am now? A mess to be cleaned up?