Page 46 of Into the Fire: Before

Brea and I sat at the edge of the ambulance bay in front of the apartment. At least they’d turned the flashing lights off; we’d drawn enough attention as it was.

The medic put his penlight away and stripped off his gloves. “Probably a mild concussion. ‘Mild’ being a relative term. Take it easy. Follow up with your GP as soon as you can, and if anything worsens in the next few hours, go to an ER.”

“She’s covered there,” Lin spoke up from where he and Caine stood a few feet back. Mysterious Caine, with murder in his eyes as he watched the medic evaluating me. His eyes kept going to the dark spot already blooming on my arm from where Heath had grabbed and yanked it. His attention made me hyperaware of my smallness, my weakness. I crossed my arms, rubbing my palms over them as if I were chilly. Mostly I just wanted to protect the bruise from his gaze, which was heavy like an actual touch.

The medic nodded, and as he stood to pack up, a police officer approached. “I’m Officer Norton. Ms. Maddox, why don’t we find somewhere more comfortable to take your statement.”

We ended up in the lobby of the building. Luckily the lookie-loos had dispersed by then. We urged the guys home too, promising we’d check in when we were finished.

It took about half an hour to detail everything—the history with Heath, the encounter at my work, then the confrontation outside. Officer Norton took notes and met my eye with a kind look when he finished. “Thank you for your cooperation, the both of you.”

“What do we do about Heath?” Brea asked, voice sharp. Anxiety skittered through my stomach like rats in the night.

The officer nodded with understanding. “I’ll log the report when I return to the station. I assume you’ll be pressing charges?”

“Yes,” Brea said.

The officer gave her a tight smile. “Actually, it needs to come from the victim.”

God, that was such a loaded, horrible word. I resisted the urge the shrink into the cushions of my seat. “I don’t want to deal with a legal battle, Brea,” I said.

“Absolutely not. He deserves—”

“It’s not about what he deserves,” I snapped. “We can’t compete with his money. And we’re not going broke paying lawyers, just for him to get out of it anyway. Forget it.” I turned to the officer. “Can…can we just, like, get a restraining order or something?”

My alpha tensed at my side but said nothing. The officer nodded. “That shouldn’t be an issue. I’ll contact you once the report is filed, probably in the next day or so, about next steps for that process.”

I nodded, and with a few more curt exchanges, he left.

I lowered the ice pack from my head and felt the tender spot. It came away blood-free. Finally. “Please stop looking at me like that,” I said.

“This is my fault.” Brea’s voice was too small.

That made me angry. This wasneitherof our faults. Before I could correct her, though, she pulled me up from the lobby seat. “Do you feel like going upstairs?”

It was a loaded question. Go upstairs, tell the men who Heath was, give them another piece of us, step a little further away from theheat buddiesfacade.

Did I want that? Did she?

“That’s as much a question for you as me,” I evaded. We both looked to the back staircase door, the one that went straight up to the roof. The one that had been left just a few inches open.

Lin

Bythetimeweslumped into our apartment, night had fallen. I was drained from the surge of alphadrenaline and already sore from the tussle. My keys fell onto the entry table with a clatter.

“You should’ve let the medic look at you,” Caine fussed.

I made my way to the bar cabinet. “I’m fine.”

“You’re fucking bleeding, Lin.”

I touched my (now that I thought about it) stinging lip, pulling my finger away to see a bit of blood. With a muttered curse, Caine grabbed my arm and pulled me toward the bathroom and rummaged through the cabinet.

“You don’t have to—”

“Shut up,” Caine said, turning with a bottle of peroxide and bandage. Without speaking, he dabbed at the cut on my lip with a tenderness that still surprised me somehow.

We’d known each other for decades, yet sometimes I still found myself trying to figure Caine out. Growing up, we’d been something like mirror images of each other. Where I’d been in a comfortable home with a pleasant family, Caine had bounced between foster homes every few months. I’d been the goody-two-shoes to his unruly rebel. For a while, none of those differences mattered though. We were just kids, two young boys who felt safe with each other. A trust had formed almost fromthe moment we met at the corner store—me, buying a chocolate bar; Caine, slippinghiscandy bar onto the counter beside mine so the cashier would ring them up together.

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