Erik nods. “Fine. Thirsty.” He veers off to a vending machine and buys bottled water, which he immediately uncaps and drinks completely.
Avery gives him a speculative look.
I rub the side of my neck. “He’s thirsty because he bled a lot. He’ll be fine once he corrects the dehydration.”
When Erik returns, Shane studies him more closely.
The Viking is wearing two giant patient gowns, one that is tied in front, the other in back. And he’s got his hiking boots on. The rest of his clothes were taken by the police as evidence.
Most people look vulnerable in a gown. Erik appears as indestructible as ever, but that’s an illusion of course. With the right injury, anyone can bleed to death.
“Why don’t you both stay at my place tonight?” Shane asks.
“Yeah,” the Viking says, stalking toward the exit doors. “How far is the car?” His wallet, keys, and phone are in my purse, making him untethered from modern life.
“You could’ve stayed inside. I’d have brought the car around,” Shane says, shepherding us along with them.
“Needed some fresh air.”
We walk to a sedan.
Next to the car, Avery motions for Erik to sit in front with Shane, but the Viking opens the back door and climbs in after me.
Erik’s icy blue gaze glances out the window. His expression is inscrutable as he says, “Home first. I need to get a few things.”
Shane drives to the loft, and Erik insists we stay in the car. He takes the keys and gets a flashlight from his truck before hustling to the building. The downstairs door is bent, and he has to shove his shoulder against it to force it open.
I suck in a disapproving breath. “God. He’d better not tear his stitches.”
Shane says nothing, but he watches Erik’s progress with a grim expression.
“You have blood on your sleeves,” Avery says. “Were you hurt, too?”
“No, that’s from compressinghiswound. If I hadn’t, he would’ve walked around until he passed out. He’s very strong andverystubborn.”
Shane’s head turns in my direction.
“Class three hemorrhage,” I add, lest Shane think I’m dramatic like my mom, instead of knowledgeable like my dad.
Avery turns farther around in her seat to face me. “How many classes are there?”
“Four. One is the least. Four, the worst.” My gaze rises to the loft’s windows where Erik can be seen moving around. “My dad is a trauma surgeon. He taught us basic first aid when we were little. As we got older and school shootings were a monthly event, he gave us crash courses in trauma triage and wound management.”
“Who’s us?”
“My brother and me.”
“Useful skills to have, unfortunately,” Avery says with a grimace.
“Tonight, they finally came in handy. At least I didn’t give up those Saturdays for nothing,” I say dryly.
Shane makes an amused sound but still says nothing. Apparently, he and his cousin are cut from the same cloth.
The lights go out in the loft. A few moments later, Erik emerges, fully dressed.
“Santa Maria, look at this.” My voice is impatient as I note the heavy duffel bags hanging from each of Erik’s shoulders and one of my large suitcases in his hand. “He’s like a skycap who lost his cart.”
Shane opens the door and gets out to assist with the bags.
