Gage’s arm snakes around my waist, the sudden movement sending a jolt through my injured shoulder. His grip tightens—just for a heartbeat—before deliberately loosening as he pulls me onto his lap.
I brace my good hand against his chest. “Don’t?—”
“I can feel you shaking,” he murmurs, his breath warm against my ear.
“So your solution is to—” The car lurches to the side to avoid something in the middle of the road, and I bite down on the inside of my cheek until I taste copper.
“There.” His voice drops lower as he shifts beneath me, angling his body to absorb the next impact before it reaches mine. His thighs tense and release with each dip in the road.
I exhale slowly, shifting to see him. “Gage.”
“Bell.” He mimics my tone perfectly, the corner of his mouth lifting as his palm slides flat against my stomach, gently pulling until my spine aligns with his chest.
I turn my head, my nose nearly brushing his. A fresh trickle of blood slides down his temple, disappearing into his hairline.
“You’re still bleeding.”
“So are you.” His fingers splay wider over my abdomen, warm through the thin fabric. His other hand cradles my elbow, pinning it against my side. The pain in my shoulder recedes like a wave pulling back from shore.
“Hey, I’m bleeding too,” Cruz grumbles from the seat behind us. The plastic bin creaks as he shifts his weight.
“We’reallbleeding. Do you want a fucking cookie?” Lola drawls.
“You tripped and fell.” Cruz’s head thunks against the window. “I got put through the tumble cycle inside a fucking metal box, so you know what?” He exhales, long and slow. “Hell yeah I want a fucking cookie.”
“I’ll buy everyone a fucking cookie if you just be quiet for ten minutes. I’ve got a splitting headache,” Lola grumbles.
Gage’s breath stirs the hair at my temple. “Just lean back.”
My weight shifts against him, the solid wall of his chest rising and falling beneath my spine. “If I’m hurting you?—”
“You’re not.” His voice vibrates through his sternum, a low rumble I feel more than hear.
The road stretches ahead, tires humming against asphalt. My eyelids flutter, growing heavier with each exhale. The car dips into a pothole. Pain lances through my shoulder. Bile rises in my throat, hot and sour. I swallow it down, focusing on the steady thud of Gage’s heartbeat against my back.
Fingers brush my thigh, calluses catching on denim. I follow the line of that arm to find Rafe watching me, jaw tight, eyes darker than usual. “Your shoulder going to make another hour?”
Something flickers across his face—that focused intensity that makes him look like he might devour whatever he’s looking at. “I’ll fix it as soon as we get to Dorsey’s.”
My breath shudders out.
Gage’s voice rumbles through his chest against my spine. “Don’t worry, Rafe’s popped more shoulders back in than most ER docs.” His palm slides up to cradle my good arm, thumb brushing over my wrist. “He’ll be quick about it.”
My head grows heavy, each blink longer than the last. The road blurs into a smear of asphalt and scrubby desert. I surrender to the gentle sway of the car, Gage’s heartbeat a steady drum against my back.
Time dissolves.
“We’re here, Bell.”Gage’s voice filters through layers of fog, lips brushing my ear. My eyes crack open to a world that refuses to focus—everything too bright, too sharp.
Grains of sand seem to scrape beneath my eyelids with each blink. The car has stopped, but my brain still feels like it’s moving, caught between sleep and consciousness, unable to remember exactly where we are or how long I’ve been out.
The junkyard materializes through the dust-streaked windshield—a rusted chain-link fence topped with spirals of razor wire catching the late afternoon sun, skeletal shells of gutted cars stacked three high like the vertebrae of mechanical dinosaurs. The layout sprawls in a chaotic maze of narrow pathways and hidden corners, enough blind spots to make my skin prickle with unease.
I catalog everything with quick, darting glances. Three possible entry points along the eastern fence. Poor sight lines to the north where junked semis create a wall. At least seven spots where someone could hunker down with a rifle if they knew we were coming.
By the time Rafe kills the engine, the silence descends like a heavy curtain dropping, leaving only the tick-tick-tick of cooling metal. I shift my weight to slide off Gage’s lap, but his arm tightens around my waist, the muscles in his forearm flexing against my stomach.
“Don’t move.” Rafe’s voice is gravel and whiskey as he unfolds from the driver’s seat and rounds the hood.
