NINETEEN

Billie

"HMMMMMM" I MOAN, turning my face toward the scent of pine and cloves, blissfully rubbing my cheek along the bumps of a warm chest I know and cherish. A soft kiss is placed on my head, and the chest underneath my cheek rumbles. Snuggling in deeper, I murmur, "Chest rumbles. Nice." The chest rumbles some more. Keeping my eyes closed, I go to run my hand along the body holding me, only to reflexively pull back when sharp pain shoots up my arm. "Feckin' hell!"

Cradling my injured arm with my other hand just brings on more pain, especially when I try to curl my fingers. "What the shite!" I grumble-whine. "Why am I in so much pain?" My fingers—do I even have fingers? Because right now whatever is at the end of my palm feels like hot dogs that have been overcooked in the microwave. Shit, I really hope they don't look like nuked, heat-split dogs.

It feels like there's something gluing my eyelashes together, and it's taking way too much effort to peel my eyelids apart. For one terrifying moment, I think I'm blind again. It happened once before. When I was sixteen, Enzo and I wanted to go to a concert at an eighteen-plus venue, so I needed to look older. To me, that meant tons of makeup and gobs—and I mean gobs —of mascara. We wanted to see the band that was playing bad enough that Enzo and I pretty much mauled each other in our one and only over-the-top display of PDA as we entered. We didn't get carded. Enzo hardly ever did; a scowl paired with a scarred face tends to keep strangers' mouths shut and eyes averted. And the make-out session made the bouncers so uncomfortable that they didn't search us. Didn't find the fifth of vodka hidden in Enzo's lame-ass leather duster or the joints hidden in the seam of my underwire bra. Nope they just checked our tickets and ushered us through the line, and like the rebellious teenagers we were, we moshed and partied our young asses off and then passed out in a mess of twisted, sweaty naked limbs in the attic of his friend's parents' house. When I woke up, I couldn't open my eyes. I legit thought they were glued together and I'd be blind or lidless for the rest of my life. Enzo, after laughing at my panic-stricken, blind self, calmed me down and used a damp face cloth to unglue my lashes.

The memory has my eyes watering, and my lids begin to flutter their way open. Blinking, I gaze up at a blurry Xander looking down at me. As he comes into focus, I notice the dark circles around sunken eyes and the exhaustion weighing down his pale face. Licking his dry, colorless lips, he draws an unsteady inhale, hollowing out his cheeks. He rasps, "I didn't have enough energy to safely heal your hand and arm."

With my brows furrowed in confusion, my gaze floats around his face, stilling on the streak of red smeared across his cheek. Blood. My blood on his face. Memories start coming back to me, first like a stream. Enzo and I riding around the city. Getting driven off the road by a Mustang. Each memory brings on more and more, my eyes widening with every one, until that stream has become a flood of blood pouring out of my torn-up neck and arm.

"Holy shit!" I blurt while trying to pop up to sit. My head screeches out with the pain of hundreds of tiny ice picks stabbing into every twisted lobe and crevice of my brain. White dots blink in and out of my suddenly black vision, and my head falls back down. Shit, I might pass out.

Xander tightens his grip on me and commands, "Wilhelmina, I need you to breathe in and out through your nose."

Something inside is telling me I need to do whatever he says. Whatever Xander says, whatever he tells me to do, I need to do it without question or comment like I've learned a lesson. It may be a lesson I'll need to relearn or one I'll question later. But right now, no questions. Do what Xander says. Closing my eyes and letting my breath become my focus, I breathe in through my nose, expanding my belly as much as I can in my current curled-up position, then slowly exhaling out my nose. Within a few breaths, my headache subsides from sharp, blinding agony to dulled pulses. And my body eases. His chest hums in praise. My head burrows into his protective hold.

I know we're in Micky's SUV. I don't know how we ended up here. I don't remember anything after thinking about how pretty Xander is, and I don't know who else is in here with us. I'm afraid that if I look around and see the faces of those I've put in danger, I'll see my family—The Den, my mates. No. If I see them, I'll freak out, and in my current fragile state I'll probably pass out, putting more undue stress on those I care about and force my alpha to use more of his energy to help my stupid ass. I keep my eyes closed and sink deeper into Xander. I wish he was wearing a hoodie I could burrow under.

The vehicle stops, and Xander bends over at the waist, sheltering me with his upper body. Lightly pressing his forehead to mine, he sucks down a deep inhale, breathing me in. I do the same.

"We'll get through this together, il mio cuore ," he promises, his warm breath kissing my lips.

"Together, il mio cuore ," I whisper-whimper.

The car door opens, and in no time Xander's striding toward the back door of Marcus's place with me in his arms. At the creaking of a storm door swinging open, I pick my head up and peek around. Micky's at the back entrance, hastily reaching up to lock the door in the open position before rushing toward us.

"Just stay there, Pa," Jimmy calls out from behind me. With squinted eyes, Micky looks up and raises a hand to block out the few rays of sun that are shining in his face. Jimmy sighs. "As Marcus and I said on the phone, a lot has happened. They've got her. We need to support them in helping her."

Micky pushes the sleeves of his long-sleeved shirt up as if he's about to object, but then he grunts a nod and turns back toward the house, pressing his back against the open door. When Xander and I make it to him, Xander turns and pauses. "She's going to be fine," he states firmly. I have no idea what Micky's thoughts or feelings are about this. I'm being a coward keeping my head tucked against Xander's chest.

Not that I need to see Micky to feel him, with how my face heats from the intensity of his eyes observing me trying to hide and failing. After a moment he clips, "She bettah be. Get herh in the house. Stay in the kitchen until we get ya both cleaned up."

We're just inside the doorway when I hear Marcus yell out, "Jakey, go open the bulkhead! We've got to get these guys settled sooner rather than later." My whole body flinches as a cold shudder of regret creeps down my spine. What have I done?

Xander sits us down in one of the chairs in the kitchen, his soft lips continuing to kiss my head while his chest vibrates, offering me comfort when I don't deserve it. I internally curse myself for what I've brought down on my family, and my face pinches with agonizing shame while tears of self-loathing and fear squeeze out between my clumpy lashes.

Depending on what happens next, which I don't even want to theorize on, this could totally be my biggest fuck-up to date. And that's saying a lot. Like, a lot. I know I didn't do anything to deserve what happened, and there was no way for me to know that we'd be in the position we're in now, but I could have been more careful. I could have taken the advice of those who care for me. I could have shortened the ride.

My inner shaming is broken up by the squeak of metal being dragged over tile and the groans of Micky settling his weight down into a chair close to me. All background noises cease. The air around us stills, and the room temperature seems to drop like it's the first sign of an oncoming storm. With each passing second, my apprehension builds, the silence becoming a physical weight holding my body and mind immobile.

"Hey, kid," Micky whispers. His gruff voice is the low rumble of a distant thundercloud on the horizon. I still can't look at him, and I've managed to not just turn my face but my entire body deeper into Xander, accepting the throbbing pain in my hand and arm from the change in position.

The tender touch of Micky's gnarled knuckles on my cheek is the first few raindrops of that once-distant storm splashing down on my skin. "Come on, kid," he grunts. "Ya not one to hide from tough times."

A derisive scoff gets strangled in my throat. He'd be right if it weren't for this whole you're-a-shifter thing. I sure as shit not only hid but ran from that. Damn, am I regressing? No. Nope. It's just that the challenges are getting harder and the storms, more unpredictable.

Lightning crashes. Buck the fuck up Billie.

Taking a quivering breath, I force myself to turn to him. His light-blue eyes are creased at the edges, capped with furrowed brows, and his thin lips are drawn down in a frown. Seeing his concern, my face scrunches up with a sob. "I'm sorry, Micky." Mucus and emotions clog my airways, and I inhale a choppy breath, sputtering, "I didn't know. I didn't know. If I had, I would've stayed on the streets."

"Oh? Ya would've, huh?" He snorts a short laugh, his face relaxing while his knuckles brush tears off my cheek. His fingers pull back, wet with my tears and blood.

Gulping down a garbled breath, I nod.

"Well then, I'm glad ya didn't know," he chides. Planting his hands on his knees and leaning forward with his head canted to the side, he says, "Listen, kid, we'll get it figured out. Ya Den, kid. Meant to be Den." Micky leans back, shakes his head, and snickers. "If what Jimmy told me on the phone is true, then I'm guessin' one of my Delirium Tremors was actually yah ma." My eyes go wide, and he waggles a finger at me, grinning. "Gotcha there, huh? Coulda sworn I saw herh turn into a fox." I gasp and he laughs. "Thought it was the lack of booze, but guess not!" I feel the vibration of subdued laughter through Xander's chest, reminding me of how not that long ago I had thought I'd never feel his smiles or laughter again.

Micky stands up and takes an assessing look at both of us. His gaze lands on my hand, and he jerks his chin. "What happened to yah hand?"

"Wolf skulls are a hella hard, Micky. Especially without tape or gloves." I groan.

"Are you serious, Billie?" Xander queries. "You punched the wolf in the face?"

I shrug. "Only after eye gouging."

With a hand on his chest, Micky throws his head back and arches his spine, and he lets out a full-on, deep belly laugh that, like a rainbow after a hard summer rain, brightens up my whole world. When his eyes land back on me, they're shinning with proud tears. "Told ya, kid. Ya Den through and through," he says in a rough voice, bending down and kissing my head. The smell of Old English Leather cologne mixed with barley and moss envelopes me, and my body warms in recognition. Letting out a long exhale, he mutters, "Let's get the two of ya cleaned up and fed."