Ryder moves past us and out into the lot long enough to check the perimeter, then comes back in looking exactly how I don’t want him to look: calm, murderous, and thinking ten steps ahead.
No sign of Cole.
No surprise there either.
He wasn’t here to fight. He was here to send a message.
Or worse.
To see what we’d do.
Zane digs into a duffel for the first aid kit because, apparently, at some point, one of us became responsible. He kneels in front of me, all business, while Aurora stays at my side, closer than ever.
Honestly? Not hating it.
Even if the wooziness is starting to get the better of me…
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Aurora
There’sblood on my hands.
Actual blood. Warm, sticky, unmistakably real in a way that refuses to be turned into something poetic or symbolic. It sits in the lines of my skin like proof of a feeling I’m not ready to name yet.
Finn’s blood.
A few minutes ago, I was just trying to survive a sunrise in a storage unit without spiraling into existential dread, and now I’m kneeling on cold concrete with my heart trying to escape through my throat while Zane presses gauze into Finn’s side and Finn keeps talking like this is mildly inconvenient rather than objectively horrifying.
“Okay,” he says, breath tight but still threaded with that same crooked humor, “so this morning is officially off to a bad start.”
I stare at him.
He gives me a faint grin, pale around the edges but still somehow very much him. “I had expectations. Coffee. Basic survival. Maybe a strong start to the day.”
Something between a laugh and a broken sound escapes me, and I hate how fragile it sounds.
His expression shifts the moment he hears it.
Zane doesn’t look up when he says, “Aurora. Pressure.”
Right.
Yes.
Useful things. Practical things. The kind of things that keep people from bleeding out on concrete floors.
I nod quickly, even though my body feels like it’s running on a delay, and Zane guides my hand back to the gauze. The warmth beneath it makes my stomach turn, not because it’s grotesque, but because it’s too real. Too immediate. Too connected to him.
Finn flinches when I press down, and I almost pull away.
“Sorry,” I whisper.
His hand covers mine before I can move.
It’s not perfectly steady, but it’s warm, familiar in a way that makes everything else feel a little less sharp.
“Don’t be,” he murmurs. “You’re doing great.”
