Red in the Blue

Chapter 27

Cade drove me to the hospital in one of the same black sedans the enforcers had. No motorcycle today. He backed it out of the garage and waited for me to shamble slowly from the house. The two enforcers on the front porch stood when I walked out, and one helped me to the car. It was the light—the brightness was so bad I had to keep my eyes squeezed shut, my hood pulled up. I thanked the enforcer awkwardly, but he was kind.

"Who are they?" I asked Cade as I pulled the passenger door closed. I had still barely seen their faces.

"Josh and Dev. The one who helped you just now was Dev."

He reached across to flip my sun visor down, but it did little to help. He tapped a cubby in the ceiling, which swung down to reveal sunglasses, and handed them over to me.

"Are these prescription?" I asked, immediately clamping my eyes shut again after putting them on and trying to get a look around.

"Oh," he said sheepishly. "Yeah, I didn't think of that."

"I've never seen you in glasses."

"I always wear contacts. Those helping at all?"

"Yes, if I keep my eyes closed. Thank you."

I had always found something soothing in being a passenger. You didn't have to know anything or look anywhere. You didn't have to make any decisions. You could do anything you wanted and be transported somewhere else with no effort. Car rides always made me sleepy. Not today.

"When do you want to talk about Lowell?" I asked. "How can you be so sure they're not going to try something like that again?"

The cab of the car felt small, close.

"Lowell's a mess," Cade said. "There is no 'Lowell' like there is a New Haven. The alpha isn't really in charge. It's a long story. That was just some...gang," he spit. "Some collection of idiots acting on their own. And none of them are in any condition to be acting again soon."

I couldn't feel my face shift past the pain in my head, but Cade must have seen a change in my expression because he added, "we fucked them up pretty bad."

"You did?"

I remembered him lunging past me into the midst of them, heaving me out of the way, the glint of his teeth, a growl ripping out of him. I remembered the sounds of them behind us, the yelps and tearing, cracking, snarls. I realized my hands were balled into fists, my nails tight against my palms, and slowly spread my fingers.

"What did you do?" I asked softly.

I felt him pause.

"I barely knew that you were alright," he said lowly. "And I barely remember what I did."

I didn't ask any more. I was afraid to. I was afraid of what he might have done, what I might have to navigate feeling responsible for.

"Thank you for coming," I said instead. "I wasn't sure you'd find me."

"We were always going to find you," he answered too quickly, voice hard. "I'm just sorry it took so long. Later I will ask what happened during that time."

I realized from the tightness in his voice that he was assuming the worst. I realized it wasn't just physical wounds he was worried about. I turned my head, took off the sunglasses and squinted at him.

"No one touched me. They locked me in a room. They gave me some food and water. I shifted like right away. So I would be stronger. But they didn't hurt me after they got me."

I watched his throat bob, his chest depress. Watched his knuckles whiten as he gripped the steering wheel. He sucked in a breath.

"That's good. I had to assume...I didn't know what to assume."