I stare straight ahead as Ragon starts the engine.
The drive out of the zoo parking lot is silent.
The air in the cab is thick with Marie's soft sniffling and the rustle of someone handing her tissues. Drake's murmur: "It's okay. You're okay. We've got you." Eli's quieter reassurance: "We'll get your ankle x-rayed. Just to be safe."
No one talks to me.
My heart is a frantic bird in my chest.
Ragon's hands grip the steering wheel tightly enough that his knuckles are white. His scent is still seething. Anger. Fear. Protective rage with nowhere to go.
Me.
He's not broadcasting command at me.
He doesn't need to.
Every inch of his body saysbarely contained.
My mind runs in useless loops.
Ask for the footage.
Make him stop at the office.
Tell him to turn around.
But the thought of saying anything, of poking at that coiled fury while we're enclosed in a moving vehicle, makes my stomach twist.
I sit very still, hands in my lap, nails biting crescents into my palms.
My brain knows I didn't touch her.
My omega knows my alpha doesn't believe me.
Both truths hurt in different flavors.
The city blurs past outside.
With every mile, my dread grows.
Ragon angry is a spectrum.
I've had the kneeling version. The "you crossed a line, I'll make sure you remember where it is" version.
This feels different.
Deeper.
Like he almost lost something precious and his entire system is looking for an outlet.
He keeps clenching his jaw like he's fighting himself.
His scent keeps spiking down into something darker and then pulling back, like a tide trying not to become a tsunami.
"Ragon," Eli says quietly from the back at one point.
Ragon's grip tightens. "Not now."
