Page 33 of Montana Memory

“Sit,” I ordered, grabbing the first aid kit I’d found in a kitchen cabinet when doing my taste tests the other night.

“I don’t need?—”

I shot him a glare that cut him off mid-sentence. “Sit.”

His lips twitched, almost like he wanted to argue just to be difficult, but he sank onto the stool, resting his forearms on the counter. I stood next to him, gently pulling up his sleeve to assess the damage.

The gash wasn’t very deep. Still, it had to hurt. I cleaned the wound, bracing for some kind of reaction. A wince. A hiss. Something.

Nothing.

I glanced up. His expression didn’t even flicker.

“This is nothing,” he muttered, watching me work like I was tying his shoelaces instead of patching up a knife wound. “Use the butterfly bandage. We don’t need to stitch it.”

I swallowed, carefully removing the bandage from its packaging and placing one-half on one side. Once again, there was no reaction from him as I pinched the wound edges together and stuck the other half of the butterfly closure on the other side of the wound.

But the words lingered.This is nothing. As if this was normal for him. Maybe it was. But to me, it was another reminder of just how different we were.

I’d just finished before his phone buzzed on the counter, cutting through the silence. He barely looked at the screen before answering.

“Jace. Talk to me.”

I stepped back, still holding on to his arm, watching as his expression shifted—eyes narrowing, jaw tightening.

Then, “Shit.”

I stiffened, releasing his arm. “What?”

He ended the call and exhaled through his nose, his posture turning rigid. “Alan Ard is dead.”

The words didn’t register at first. “What?”

“He was killed in his cell last night.” Hunter’s eyes met mine, sharp and unreadable. “Cops are probably going to want to talk to me. Or at least Roger Crane, the ID I used.”

Hunter pushed off the stool, pacing a slow line across the kitchen, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “They’ll be looking for a suspect. I don’t trust the system enough to think they won’t try to pin this on me in some way.”

Panic curled up my spine. I didn’t know much, but I knew that if the cops were after Hunter, that was bad.

“What do we do?” My voice wavered.

“Jace is covering my tracks as much as he can, but I need to lie low.” He turned to face me. “No more slipups. No more chances for them to see me.”

The walls of the safe house suddenly felt too small. Too thin. A fresh wave of anxiety crashed over me. “Everything keeps getting worse. Alan is dead. The cops are after me and now you too. There’s no antidote, and my life is gone for good.”

Hunter leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching me. “We’re going to figure it out.”

I looked up at him. “You don’t believe that.”

His jaw tightened. “Jace is still looking. He may find something Copper didn’t know about.”

“Stop.” My voice trembled, but I forced myself to meet his eyes. “You promised you wouldn’t lie to me.”

Hunter exhaled, dragging a hand through his hair. He didn’t look away, didn’t try to sugarcoat it. “Okay. Then, yes, you’re right. Finding a cure… It’s a long shot.”

Hearing Hunter say it somehow made it worse. Made it more real.

A sharp pain lanced my chest, like something inside me had cracked open. A sob slipped out before I could stop it, my hands flying up to cover my mouth. I sucked in a shuddering breath, but it didn’t help. The tears kept coming, hot and relentless, blurring my vision.

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