There's too much blood.
The white dress is ruined, soaked through in places and smeared in others, clinging where it should not.
I ease her back against the seat, bracing her carefully, forcing my breathing to slow even as my pulse slams in my ears. “I need to check you.”
She doesn't argue.
I don't start gently. I hook my fingers into the fabric at her midsection and tear upward in one hard motion, ripping the dress open so I can see her stomach and ribs. I need to know if she has been shot or stabbed somewhere that will end her fast. My eyes scan every inch of exposed skin, searching for wounds, for blood that doesn't belong where it is pooling.
Nothing fatal.
Only deep bruises spreading beneath the skin.
I swallow and move on.
I start with her arms. Dark bruises line her forearms and biceps, finger-shaped and unmistakable. The sight twists something hot and violent in my chest. I move to her right wrist and see the bandaging immediately, wrapped too tight, dirty, uneven. Someone did it fast with whatever they had.
I unwrap it slowly.
Her hand is badly swollen. The wrist beneath it is worse, purple and distorted, the joint locked stiff from swelling.
My jaw clenches until it hurts.
I check her left arm next. More bruising. More damage. The anger keeps stacking, heavier with every mark, but I force it down. She needs me focused.
I move to her face. A bruise blooms under one eye. Scratches trace her jaw. Her lip is split. Her neck is mottled with bruises.
My hands shake. I keep them steady.
I check her legs. Scrapes cover both knees. Bruises line her thighs. She flinches when I touch her ankle, and I feel the way she shifts, protecting one side of her body without thinking.
I follow the blood instead of asking questions.
When I reach her shoulder, I see the wound clearly. The entry wound is swollen and angry, blood still seeping through the torn fabric.
I exhale slowly, my eyes never leaving it.
“He shot me,” Brooke says quietly. “I pulled it out.”
That pushes my anger over the edge.
I swallow it down because losing control won't help her.
I lift the hem of the dress and check the rest of her. Her thighs are smeared with dirt and blood, her skin cold beneath my hands. I move higher with intent, shutting everything else out, focused only on finding injuries, not on the way her body shakes under my touch.
Then I see it.
Blood soaks her underwear.
My breath stalls hard in my chest, like something has reached in and squeezed my lungs shut.
I blink once, then again, forcing myself to look for another explanation. I tell myself it has to be from her hip, her leg, anywhere else I can make it make sense.
It is not.
It is exactly what it looks like.
I don't ask her. I can't say anything.
