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It was going to be a long walk.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Two hours, give or take, was how long it took me to stagger up to the motel. I couldn’t tell for sure without my cell phone. But the sun was setting around eight o’clock most nights, and full night was on us now.
It could have been closer to four hours, but that felt excessive.
I stared at the motel for a good minute before deciding it was worth the risk to see if anyone was home. Cash’s car was parked out front, but his lawyer friend Matt’s was still gone. Our room was dark, but the light in Wilder’s was on.
After limping across the parking lot, I knocked on his door.
Every small sound behind me made me look over my shoulder. I half-expected the door to open and Deerling to be waiting for me on the other side. Escaping hadn’t brought me any relief. If anything, I was ten times more paranoid now that I was back in the so-called civilized world.
Wilder opened the door, cell phone pressed to his ear, and stopped speaking mid-sentence.
He couldn’t have been more stunned to see me if I’d been wearing a Big Bird costume.
“Oh my God.”
“No,” I mumbled. “Just Genie. God doesn’t live in Franklinton anymore.”
He pulled me inside with such force I had to brace myself against one of the double beds to keep from falling. The second my hands touched the soft material of the comforter, I sagged. My whole body gave up. Everything that had kept me on my feet said, Safe now, and I collapsed to my knees on the smelly pile carpeting, dragging half the comforter with me.
I clutched it to my chest and breathed in the now-familiar scent of Wilder, but it wasn’t him I was craving. He wasn’t the reason it gave me relief. The blanket smelled like wolf. It was the closest thing to home I could hold on to.
At some point between entering the room and now, I’d started to cry.
“…She’s here. No, I don’t know. I’ll call you back when I know.” He didn’t wait for a response. He hung up and threw the phone on the small table near the front door, then stooped next to me.
His hands were suddenly everywhere. He was pushing my hair off my shoulders, gently tugging bits of branches and leaves from it, letting them fall to the floor beside me as if I were a deciduous tree at the change of season.
His thumbs grazed my cheeks, brushing away my tears. With each new motion he checked another part of me, tilting my head one way, then the other. Rough fingertips trailed down my throat, and he squeezed my shoulders and tried to take the blanket from me.
I resisted, hugging it closer like I was a child.
“Genie, I need to see if you’re okay.”
“I’m o-okay.”
“Liar.” He tried again to take the comforter, and this time I let him, regretting it the second the material slid free of my hands. A small whimper escaped my lips as the blanket was placed back on the bed.
Wilder checked my arms and peeled my fingers free from the knife. Somehow I’d managed not to shred the comforter or accidentally stab myself when I’d come in. He set the knife on the bed, and his hands moved up and down my arms, turning them over to inspect both the front and back.
“Where are you hurt?” he asked, still checking me as he went.
“I’m not hurt.”
He glanced towards the door, and I followed his gaze. Bloody footprints proved I was, indeed, injured. I hadn’t realized it until he drew my attention to the mess I’d made.
“I can clean that up,” I whispered, moving towards it, my brain on autopilot.
He grabbed my arms and held me firmly in place. He didn’t budge an inch, staying perfectly still until I lifted my eyes and met his serious, intense gaze. He was shaking. I could feel the tremors in my elbows.
“Where are you hurt?” he asked again, his voice straining to stay calm.
“M-my feet.” I pointed at my bare toes, which were caked with dirt and blood.
His eyes widened. It was amazing we’d both managed to miss the obvious, but he was probably looking for gunshots or stab wounds. And I’d gotten so used to the pain I’d forgotten how bad running here had messed up my feet.
