Page 53 of The Enemy to the Living
I wait for him to stumble away—and both the fae watching him look worried, though eventually they give up and the second goes back inside—and catch up when he rounds the corner.
Quinn stumbles, and I catch him. He tries to scowl when he looks up into my face, but the movement tugs on his black eye and he winces.
“Fuck,” I hiss. Anger prickles my scalp, but I keep my hands gentle. “We need to get a taxi.”
“No,” Quinn says. The word is slurred. Is he concussed? I can’t tell out here in the dark. “No, I can make it.”
“You’re not going back there.” I all but spit out the words. His pack won’t look after him. Sure, they won’t look after him because they won’tknow, but still.
They won’t look after him.
I will.
If I can’t help that other wolf, then I’ll make sure Quinn is fine, if it’s the last thing I do.
Quinn sways into me. “Got to go home,” he says. He’s heavy, but I already have my phone in my hand, and it’s a few seconds before I book a taxi and get confirmation that it’s on the way. “They’ll ask. They’ll know.”
“They won’t know shit,” I mutter, then say louder, “You’re coming to mine. You’ve got a concussion. What the fuck happened?”
Quinn winces. “Can’t.”
He can’t even tell me that? I clench my jaw, focusing on the little dot on the map that says our taxi is nearing. Quinn whines in the back of his throat and leans against me a little more.
“Sorry,” he says, the words hardly louder than a breath.
“Did they do this on purpose?” I look him over. If he’s out of touch with his wolf and it’s been months, then he’ll be healing slower, too. It might take him days to recover from a beating like this, and I’m sure they’ll call him back before then.
Quinn doesn’t answer. I don’t expect him to. He’s clearly been told not to talk—and whether that’s just to me or to everyone he knows, I’m not sure.
The taxi pulls up and the driver eyes us warily as I help Quinn inside. He doesn’t ask, though, and I’m grateful for it. I arrange Quinn against my side, and he sighs against my skin.
“Hurts,” he murmurs.
I clench my hands on my thighs so I don’t touch him. Not until I can see where he’s injured. “I know.”
“Why were you there?”
“Looking for something.”
“D’you find it?”
“No.”
Quinn is silent the rest of the journey, and I tip the driver well once I’ve got him out of the car. It’s a struggle to get him up to my flat and inside—the way is narrow, but he’s also tired, and I don’t think that’s all down to tonight. He’s been running on fumes for a while.
Once we’re inside, I flick on the light. Quinn winces, shading his eyes. “Sorry,” I say and reach for the hem of his T-shirt. “I need to see…”
He blinks owlishly at me. Fuck, he’s concussed. His pupils are blown wide and when I move my fingers in front of his face, he can’t follow them.
“I need to see where you’re injured. Can I take off your clothes?”
Quinn nods, winces, and nods again. “Yeah.”
He groans in pain when I make him lift his arms to get his T-shirt off, and I bite back a gasp at the bruising that mottles his torso. His legs are bruised, too, though less so, and at least there aren’t any open wounds to deal with.
Fuck. What was the crowd like when this happened? This isn’t the kind of beating that took seconds; he must have been stuck in that cage for minutes.
Or some back room, maybe. Bile rises in my throat, and I put a hand on Quinn’s shoulder because that seems safe enough.
