The van hits a pothole, and every muscle in my body protests, jolting me enough that some sense of reality bleeds through the fog in my brain, and I pull Dani tighter against me.
“Trev?” Dani rests her head on my shoulder. “What is it?”
I don’t have the words to tell her how I feel, and it hits me that I never even questioned where we were going. “What’s—“ I cough, my throat suddenly too tight, “What’s the plan now?”
Ry glances up at the rearview mirror, locking his eyes on me for a brief moment. “Safehouse so you and Dani can clean up and rest. Gotta pack up all of our shit and scrub the space clean. Wheels up at 0800 tomorrow morning.”
Rest. I’m so fucking tired, and the idea of sleeping somewhere warm, somewhere I’m not cuffed, somewhere I can stretch my legs...it’s all I want. Rest and Dani.
I let my thoughts wander, but I keep seeing her face when Ochoa’s men dragged me into that room. The bright, angry burn. The blood staining her cheek, her neck, her chest.
“We’re here,” Dani says as the van coasts to a stop. “Let’s get you inside.”
I let her lead me, her arm around my waist. Ry directs us into a small bedroom with two sleeping bags laid out next to one another. Graham follows with a duffel bag, and Ronan brings in two chairs.
“Sit,” Graham says. “Without West here, I’m the closest thing you have to a field medic.”
I look to Ry, and he scowls. “I sent West and Inara to a SERE refresher course in the Everglades the day before you were arrested. They’re not due to report in until—“ he checks his watch, “—an hour ago. Gotta check in with Wren.” He pauses at the door. “Graham knows what he’s doing.”
The look on Graham’s face is pure shock. “You all heard that, right? If I asked you to repeat it, you would?”
Dani chuckles, then winces and cups her cheek. “Dammit. I’ll repeat anything as long as you don’t make me laugh again.”
Graham’s gaze pings between the two of us. “Trevor, take off your shirt.”
“No. Dani first.”
“Trev—“ she protests.
I can’t watch her in pain another minute longer. “Dani, please.”
Whatever she hears in my voice gets through to her, and she tucks a lock of hair behind her ear, giving Graham a clear view of the cauterized wound. He swabs it with disinfectant, and Dani hisses and sways in the chair until I stabilize her with my arm around her waist
“Breathe, baby.”
“Uh huh.” Every second Graham works feels like an hour, but eventually, he cleans all the blood from her face and treats the burn with a thin layer of gel.
The slice across her collarbone is next, but it isn’t deep, thank God. “This’ll be fine in a few days,” he says as he affixes the last of five butterfly bandages to her skin. “I’d be surprised if the hits you took to your face don’t hurt more.”
“They do,” she says, and I stare at her. All I saw was the scar she’ll have for the rest of her life, but now that I force myself to look closer, I hate myself even more. Both of her cheeks are shades of purple, and her left eye is swollen slightly.
“Fuck, Dani. What happened before—?“
“Later, Trev. Please. Let Graham take a look at you.” Her gaze holds enough pain to last a lifetime. We’re going to have a long talk when we’re alone because I have to know everything that bastard did to her.
Other than the severe chafing around my wrists from the cuffs, bruises up and down my torso, and the lingering weakness and muscle cramps, none of my injuries are serious, and Graham packs up his kit, leaving us with an extra tube of burn gel and several packets of over the counter painkillers.
“Bathroom’s there,” he says, pointing to a door across the hall. “Dani, try to keep hot water off your cheek, but otherwise, you should both be fine to shower. Go clean up if you want. We’ll get some MREs ready.”
I stand when Graham does and reach for his arm. “Why did you come?”
To his credit, the kid—hell, he’s only a couple of years younger than I am—the man doesn’t ask me to elaborate. Just shrugs. “You’re one of us. Why wouldn’t I?”
* * *
Dani leadsme into the bathroom and turns on the hot water. The mirror’s cracked down the center, and the tub/shower combination has seen better days. But for a safehouse on the outskirts of Caracas, this is pure luxury, and something I wasn’t sure I’d ever see again. Just like the woman in front of me who unbuttons her blouse and throws it into the trash.
Her black slacks are next, followed by her bra and underwear. “I don’t ever want to see those clothes again,” she says. “Or these.” Her fingers wrap around the waistband of the thin, dark red pants.
