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I nod.
His gentle touch moves over my arms, my shoulders, my chest. He finds the glass cuts first, small and shallow, thanks to my thick cardigan, where I went through the desk. Next comes the bruising along my ribs where I landed hard. When he reaches my throat, his hands still, his thumbs resting just below the darkest of the marks the Alpha’s fingers left. A dangerous tension settles over him.
“You did well defending yourself,” he says.
I nod again.
His hands leave my throat, and Orien sits back on his heels. “I need to ride with Saint to ensure our friend gets where he’s going.”
“Yeah.”
He stands, then pauses, looking down at me. “I need you to strip. Everything with blood on it.”
I blink up at him.
“Everything you’re wearing, including your nape guard,” he says, leaving no room for argument.
I look at Saint, who stands with his back to me, picking up the wreckage of my desktop.
Swallowing, I stand and strip. The cardigan goes first, followed by my shirt, revealing the bruising along my side and the deepening purple bruise spreading from my hip to my armpit.
Orien goes still. “Trouble.”
I don’t raise my head. “I’m fine.”
My fingers hesitate on my nape guard before I find the three spots and unlock it, dropping it into the bag. The pants follow. After a moment, I peel off the boxer briefs as well, step out of them, and straighten.
Orien holds the bag open, and I drop the last of it in.
“While we’re gone, you need to shower.” He ties off the garbage bag. “Use hot water, and be thorough, focusing on your hairline, fingernails, and behind your ears. Check the drain when you’re done.” He lifts the bag. “When you’re done, put on clean clothes and wait until I return. Don’t leave. Don’t answer the door. Don’t call anyone.”
“Okay,” I say.
He studies me for a long time, as if he doesn’t want to leave. “I’ll be back soon.”
“Thank you,” I manage.
He shakes his head. “Don’t thank me for this, trouble. Just…” He pauses, choosing his words with care. “Be here when I come back.”
“I will,” I promise.
He stares at me a moment longer, as if worried I’ll vanish the moment he steps out the door. Then he grabs the garbage bags and follows Saint into the hallway, closing the door behind him.
I stare around at the wreckage of my small apartment. I should call Alexei and tell him everything. He would want to know what happened.
Instead, I grab a change of clothes, the bottle of whiskey, and head into the bathroom.
13
Irun the shower hot enough to turn my skin red, scrub my body raw, and shampoo three times, because cleaning away the evidence gives my brain a task it can actually handle.
Because when I stop focusing on showering, my mind keeps replaying the attack. How could it have gone so horribly wrong? What could I have done better? Was there another way to stop the attack without someone ending up dead? Scrubbing shuts out the part of my brain insisting that I got sloppy. That I allowed Orien to distract me. That this was my fault.
Only the water turning cold forces me to stop.
When I finally turn the water off, I don’t immediately reach for a towel. The dead weight of exhaustion turns even that simple movement into a chore. Thick steam fills the bathroom, the air almost unbreathable as my attention settles on the drain where pink-tinged water swirled away moments ago.
No blood remains. No evidence. Only clean, washed skin.
