Page 124 of Dead Girls Don’t Forget

He carried me through the back door, kicked it shut behind him, and didn’t put me down until we reached my bedroom.

He laid me on the bed as though I were made of glass.

“I’ll call the pack doctor. But if he says you need a hospital, we’re going. No arguments.” A muscle ticked in his cheek. “I’m not losing you.”

“Make sure he doesn’t tell anyone,” I whispered.

His eyes locked onto mine. A slow nod. “Okay. I’ll alpha command him.”

He stepped out to make the call. Even through the haze of pain I heard the shift in his voice when he spoke to the doctor.

When he came back he knelt beside me again. “He’ll be here in forty minutes.” His eyes moved over the injuries scattered across my body. “I need to clean you up before he gets here. Some of this needs wrapping.”

I tried to sit up. The room tilted.

“Don’t,” he said. “I’ve got you.”

He carried me into the bathroom. When the water warmed he eased me beneath the spray, one arm still braced around me so I wouldn’t drop.

“There’s blood in your hair,” he murmured.

Warm water ran down my neck as his hands moved into the tangled mess, rinsing what he could without pressing too hard. I closed my eyes and let the water run over me. Every bruise, every cut, every bite throbbed in time with my pulse. John had done a number on me. My muscles felt like they’d been torn apart and stitched back together wrong.

“Can you stand?” Jackson asked.

“If I lean on you.”

He kept one arm locked around me and stripped out of his wet clothes with the other, never fully letting go. Once he was free of them he tipped my head forward and worked shampoo into my hair, slow and careful. His fingers massaged my scalp with a care that stayed mindful of every tender spot.

Despite everything it felt grounding. The solid weight of his hands, the heat of his body, the steady way he held me upright when my own legs wouldn’t.

“Don’t fall asleep yet,” he said. “I still need to rinse you.”

I sighed as he tilted my head into the stream. Water washed the last of the blood and dirt from my hair while my body sagged heavier against him, exhaustion pulling hard.

My cat purred low beneath my ribs, trying to soothe the worst of the pain.

“I’m so sleepy,” I mumbled.

“I know. Almost done.”

By the time Jackson wrapped me in towels and carried me back toward the bedroom I was barely keeping my eyes open.

He sat me carefully on the edge of the bed while he pulled supplies from the first-aid kit. His expression tightened more with every injury he cleaned. Butterfly bandages closed the smaller cuts. Gauze wrapped the deeper ones. When he disinfected the bite on my thigh the burn was vicious enough to make my breath catch.

Just as he finished dressing me in a camisole and underwear, a knock sounded at the door.

He helped me lie down and pulled the comforter up to my shoulders.

“Stay,” he said. “It’s the doctor.”

I almost laughed. I wasn’t going anywhere.

Dr. Reynolds was older than I expected. Salt-and-pepper hair, weathered face, a medical bag he set down without looking at me first. He gave Jackson a long look. Whatever Jackson did with his face in return made the doctor’s shoulders drop a fraction.

“I’m Dr. Reynolds,” he said. “I’m going to need to look at you.”

As he neared the bed I caught his scent immediately. Unfamiliar wolf. Anxiety crawled straight under my skin.