I lunge for my jacket hanging on the back of the desk chair, almost knocking it over in my haste. Cool leather slides beneath my fingers, and keys jangle in the pocket.
I need air. I need space. I need to be anywhere but here, where Carson’s words can find me.
Leaving the phone on my nightstand, I head for the door.
The hallway beyond is quiet this late at night, and I pull the door shut behind me, then double-check the latch to be sure it’s locked.
The sound of rain grows louder as I move toward the exit, my footsteps quickening with each stride.
As the automatic doors slide open, the night air rushes in, heavy with the storm. Rain plasters my hair to my scalp, but I welcome the cold shock as I stride to my car in the small parking lot.
Behind the wheel, I start the engine. I havenowhere to go, but anywhere is better than here right now.
Rain streaks across my windshield, the headlights catching each droplet before it’s gone. The wipers beat a steady rhythm, helping my racing pulse to calm.
I drive without purpose, turning down streets at random, the pavement beneath my tires humming through the steering wheel and up my arms. My hands grip the wheel too tightly, but with each mile, Carson’s words loosen their hold.
I crack the window, and cold air rushes in, bringing with it salt and wet asphalt. The rain eases to a steady drizzle, and I breathe in, filling my lungs with the damp, mineral-rich air.
My pulse ticks slower now, the frantic need to escape easing. The dashboard clock reads a little after midnight, and only the occasional streetlamp breaks the darkness, each one casting a halo of mist as raindrops dance through the light.
I turn onto Harbor Road, taking a route that will circle back to my hotel after a long drive. Most windows here are dark, save for the security lights casting pools of sickly yellow on empty loading docks.
Movement catches in my peripheral vision, shadows where there should be none. I slow thecar, peering through the rain-streaked side window into an alley. Too much motion for this hour, too chaotic for the security patrol that sweeps through on the hour.
My first thought is teenagers breaking into the warehouses, or perhaps workers from the late shift stumbling home drunk. Three figures huddle by a building near the fence line, their silhouettes black in the dim glow of a distant security lamp. A fourth shape lies on the ground between them.
I squint through the rain. My headlights catch the scene as I roll to a stop. Three men stand over a fourth, who sprawls on the wet pavement. One holds a phone, its blue-white light offering dim illumination for the scene.
The men shift positions, two stepping back as the third moves in, and the man on the ground turns his head toward my headlights, arms raised in a feeble attempt to shield himself.
Blood streaks across his face, his lip split and swollen. Water plasters his hair to his forehead, but even distorted by rain and darkness, I recognize Jared.
I reach for my phone to call the police before remembering that I left it in my hotel room. With no other choice, my hand slams down on my car horn, sending a blare into the night.
The three men freeze, caught like deer in my headlights. Their heads whip toward me, faces illuminated, and I recognize them as the men who harassed me on my first day in town.
The tallest man shoves his phone into his pocket. The shortest spits on the ground near Jared’s head before they scatter like roaches exposed to sudden light.
Through the windshield, I watch Jared struggle to push himself upright, one arm wrapped around his midsection. His fingers scrabble for purchase on the wet ground, slipping once before he manages to brace himself on the side of the building.
I throw the car into park and lunge for the door handle, letting in a rush of cold rain. My feet hit the wet pavement with a splash, soaking the bottoms of my khakis.
My shoes splash through puddles as I rush toward him, the headlights of my car casting my shadow long before me.
Jared’s head lifts toward me, his left eye swelling shut, bruises blooming across his cheekbone, and the split in his bottom lip seeping blood.
He squints through the rain, struggling to focus. “What… what are you doing here?”
This close, I catch the metallic tang of bloodmixing with his Alpha pheromones of salt air and driftwood, muted by the rain but unmistakable.
“I was out for a drive.” My hand hovers near his shoulder, uncertain whether touch would comfort or hurt. “We need to get you to a hospital.”
“No.” Jared shifts, wincing as he tries to straighten. “No cops. No hospitals.”
“You’re bleeding. Your ribs might be broken.”
Jared’s jaw sets at a stubborn angle. “Just... home.”