Page 15 of Dreadful

It still does something to my ribs that I don’t have a clean word for.

The conversation keeps going. I watch Bishop’s mouth move, watch Rafe’s jaw tighten, watch Cruz’s hands still in his pockets. None of the words land. My shoulder is a dull, specific throb, and the overhead light has developed a faint buzz I can’t unhear now that I’ve noticed it.

Bishop claps his hands together once. “Everyone stays here tonight. Crowe’s a fucking coward, and if he’s anything like the rest of his family, he’s disorganized as shit. Which means we’re less likely to get picked off tonight if we stay here.”

I find Lola’s eyes. She holds my look for a beat, something passing between us that doesn’t need language. I turn back toward the room—toward no one in particular, toward all of them.

“Lola and I will take the couch.” I keep my voice even. “If Coco’s okay with it.”

Gage crosses to me in two steps. His hand settles on my arm, light enough that I could pretend not to feel it. “Bell.” His voice drops. “You got shot tonight.” He doesn’t move his hand. “You’re with me.”

Rafe shakes his head slowly. “Nah, I don’t think so.”

Gage’s hand tightens on my arm. “She needs to lie down.”

“She will. In my room,” Rafe says.

“The fuck she will,” Gage protests.

Bishop’s glare is a physical weight, but my vision is starting to tunnel at the edges, the buzz in the lights syncing with the throbbing in my arm.

Then Cruz is just there, moving smooth as smoke between them. His arm comes around my shoulders, warm and heavy, turning me toward the hallway before I can process it.

“She’s with me tonight,” Cruz calls over his shoulder as we leave the garage.

SIX

CRUZ

I keep my arm loosely around Bellamy’s neck as I steer her through the house.

A quiet exhale escapes her. “What are you doing, Cruz?”

A slow grin pulls at my mouth. “Rescuing you, of course.”

Her dark eyes cut sideways, but that dry smirk I love so much is absent from her plush lips. “Really.”

My fingers find the ends of her hair, twisting the strands lightly as I guide her toward my door. “Someone’s got to save you from my brothers, Bells.”

She looks away, breaking the contact. “I don’t need rescuing.”

The words land like a dull thud against my ribs. I breathe through the sudden hollow feeling and keep walking, pushing open the bathroom door without another word.

“Sit for a second.” I tip my chin toward the toilet as I move past her.

She settles onto the closed lid, knees together, hands loose in her lap. “What are you doing, Cruz?”

I don’t answer. I grab her clean clothes from my dresser, then back into the bathroom to the linen closet for a towel. I drape it over the rack and reach past the curtain to find the handle, walking the temperature up slowly until the water runs just short of too hot. Exactly the way she likes it.

Steam starts climbing the tile. I flick the water from my fingers and let the curtain close, then turn around.

She’s looking up at me the way she sometimes does when she thinks I’m not paying attention—open and unguarded, like she forgot to put the wall back up. The sight of her sitting there does something to my self-control I don’t have a name for. I give in for a second, dragging my thumb along the right side of her jaw, palming the back of her neck and sinking my fingertips into her hair. She tips her head back at the touch. I let myself look at her.

The line of her throat. The slow rise of her chest.

A thousand things press forward against the back of my teeth—things I’ve been holding down for years—and I swallow every last one of them.

“You said you wanted to shower.”