Page 36 of Found by the Pack
Even if it’s stupid.
What the hell are you doing, Shepard?
I don’t know. But this feels like the beginning of something.
And I’m not sure I can stop it.
I’m still running on the tailspin of adrenaline from the moment I found Sadie’s truck crushed in a ditch. Jesus, my hands haven’t stopped shaking.
The second the lock clicks open on Gus’s crate—not a crate, not really, just the gate I sometimes use to stop him from knocking over my bookshelves—he bolts out like his tail’s on fire.
“You broke out again this morning,” I remind him, scrubbing a hand down my face. “Snapped the damn latch. You owe me fifty bucks, you fluffy demon.”
He ignores me completely, careening around the room before he leaps straight onto the couch where Sadie’s curled up. Gus nudges at her chest until she opens her eyes and lets out a soft, dry laugh.
“Hey, buddy,” she whispers, reaching up to scratch behind his ears. Her voice is hoarse.
I step closer. “You okay?”
She blinks slowly. “Headache. Bad one.”
I nod. “I’ve got something for that. But I want to be sure you’re stable before I dose you.”
She winces when she shifts to sit up. Gus immediately noses her arm again, whining softly. Loyal-ass dog.
“What else can I do?” I ask.
She looks up at me. Eyes glassy. Expression guarded. “Bathroom?”
“Yeah, of course.” I walk over, steadying her with a hand under her elbow. “Here. It’s through my room.”
Her body’s small against mine. Still tense. Still wired.
I take the few seconds she’s in the bathroom to grab what I need—sweatpants, another long-sleeved shirt, socks, hell, even a hair tie from the dish by the sink. Anything that might make her feel safe.
When she comes out, she’s pale and visibly swaying.
“I thought we should get you into something warmer.”
“That would be nice,” she says.
I point to my clothes, knowing they will be a little too big on her but what other choice do I have?
“I—” she starts, then stops, bracing against the doorframe. “Could you… help?”
“Yeah,” I say gently. “Let’s sit.”
I walk her to the bed. Help her sit. She’s trying to unlace her boots but her fingers aren’t cooperating.
“Let me,” I say. She nods.
Fuck, she’s freezing.
I kneel, tug off the soaked boots. Her socks are damp, her calves mottled from the cold. She sits there, half-slumped, watching me with those eyes that never seem to stop hiding things.
She’s wearing a black tank top under the dress. Soft cotton, a little worn. I can see the straps of her bra. Her skin is freckled down her shoulders and collarbones, and she has too many bruises for someone who just slipped into a ditch.
“Arms up?” I say softly.
