"No. This time, I said you'refuckinginsane."
"Rex." My teeth are chattering so hard it's difficult to form words. "I'm s-serious. I'm not leaving without you. So either we both go, or we both stay. Pick one."
And I genuinely think he's going to choose the second option. Where I think we're both going to sit here in the mud until the rain stops or we turn into popsicles, whichever comes first.
Then he moves.
It's abrupt, almost violent. One moment he's sitting against the headstone, the next he's on his feet, reaching down to grab my upper arm and haul me upright with enough force that I stumble into his chest.
"You're a pain in my ass," he growls, but he's already steering me toward the path, one hand firm on my elbow like he thinks I might collapse if he lets go.
He might not be wrong.
My legs feel like they belong to someone else. Numb and clumsy, stumbling over the uneven ground as Rex guides me through the cemetery.
The rain hasn't let up. If anything, it's gotten worse, coming down in sheets that make it hard to see more than a few feet ahead.
But Rex knows the way. Of course he does. He's probably walked this path a thousand times, in every kind of weather, coming to talk to his dead brother because he has no one else he trusts.
His car is parked at the edge of the cemetery, that black sedan I remember from the drive to the stone tower. Rex unlocks it with a beep, yanks open the passenger door, and practically shoves me inside before rounding to the driver's side.
The engine roars to life. Heat blasts from the vents, so sudden and intense that it almost hurts against my frozen skin.
"There's a blanket in the back," Rex says, already reaching behind the seat. He pulls out what looks like a moving blanket. Thick, quilted, the kind you use to wrap furniture. "Here."
I take it with numb fingers, trying to wrap it around my shoulders, but my hands won't cooperate. The shivering has gotten worse now that I'm out of the rain, my body finally processing exactly how cold it actually got out there.
"F-fuck," I manage through chattering teeth. "This is r-ridiculous."
Rex watches me struggle for about three seconds before he makes an irritated sound and climbs into the back seat, hauling me with him.
"What are you?—"
"Get back here."
"What?"
"You're going to go into shock if you don't warm up faster." He's already pulling the blanket from my useless fingers. "Get in the back. Now."
I don't have the energy to argue. I let him pull me between the seats—graceless, awkward, my frozen limbs refusing to cooperate—and collapse onto the back seat beside him.
"Your clothes are soaked," he says flatly. "They need to come off."
My brain short-circuits. "E-excuseme?"
"You're in danger of hypothermia. Wet clothes make it worse." His voice is clinical, detached, the same tone a doctor might use. "I'm not going to look. Just get them off and wrap up in the blanket."
He's right. I know he's right. The binder alone is a sodden weight against my ribs, leeching whatever warmth the car's heater is trying to provide.
"Turn around," I manage.
He does, shifting so his back is to me. I struggle out of my wet clothes. Shirt, binder, jeans, everything except my underwear.
The moment I reach for the blanket again, he turns and quickly wraps it around me like I'm a burrito. Layers of quilted fabric tucked under my chin, around my sides, beneath my legs.
Then he pulls me against his chest, one arm locking around my shoulders, the other pressing me closer until there's no space left between us.
The heat of his body is a shock after the cold. He's warmer than any normal person has a right to be after sitting in the rain for hours. Maybe it's an alpha thing. Maybe it's just Rex.