Chapter 8
Boone
The second I spot her truck—cracked windshield like a web of warning—I curse under my breath and grip the wheel tighter. Rain’s slicking the asphalt, painting Driftwood Cove in wet gold and bruise-gray.
Of course Shepard’s too nice to call it in. Of course I’m the one speeding across town like a damn vigilante medic.
I park half-crooked in front of the apartment building and jog past my own floor, taking the stairs two at a time up to the second.
I knock once, then let myself in.
Sadie’s on the couch, curled into a ball beneath an oversized sweatshirt, her legs tucked tight, one sock half off. She’s absently rubbing behind Gus’s ear like she’s done it a hundred times. But she’s swaying a little, eyelids heavy. Woozy. Pale.
Shepard meets me halfway across the living room.
“She hit a ditch. Squirrel jumped across the road. Her forehead caught the wheel—there’s a cut, but no gash. She’s been confused, nauseated. Didn’t want the hospital. Said if the mayor finds out about the crash, he’ll pull her contract.”
Goddammit.
“I gave her some Gatorade,” he adds. “She asked for painkillers, but I just offered her some ibuprofen since she’s still got a headache.”
“No, you were right,” I say, already crossing to her. “Let me check her out.”
“Boone…” he says lowly. “She’s scared.”
“I know.”
I crouch beside the couch. Up close, she’s all fine bones and smudged eyeliner. Even in his clothes, she’s got this grace, soft wrists and delicate collarbones.
Doesn’t matter—none of that. She’s still a patient.
I switch into paramedic mode.
“Sadie?” I say softly. “It’s Boone.”
Her eyes flick to me. Fuzzed. Muddled.
“I remember,” she murmurs. “The sneakers.”
“Yeah.” I smile gently. “Those shoes didn’t deserve hot chocolate trauma. Listen, I’m gonna ask you a few questions, okay?”
She nods. Or maybe her head just tilts.
I check the size and depth of the forehead cut—surface only. Lucky. I grab my penlight, warn her, and check her pupils. One’s slightly slower to respond. Shit.
“What’s today?” I ask.
“…Monday?”
“It’s Tuesday, sweetheart.”
She groans. “I was close.”
I glance at Shepard. He looks like he’s ready to crumble into dust.
“I’m not going to the hospital,” Sadie says suddenly.
I blink. “You should.”
She lifts her chin. “No.”
“I get that,” I say gently. “But I need to make sure you’re okay. That cut—”
“It’s not that deep.”
I sigh. “Look, if you won’t go, we’ll monitor you here. But I need your word. That means I wake you every couple hours. Ask you basic questions. Make sure you’re not bleeding internally.”
“Fine,” she mumbles. “But I’m not leaving.”
“Alright.” I nod. “Then lie back. You can sleep in short bursts, but I’ll set timers.” I turn to Shepard. “Blanket. And grab your first aid kit. I’ll clean the cut again.”
Shepard rushes off and I glance down again. She’s already half-dozing, cheek pressed to the armrest.
Poor thing looks like she’s been through seven kinds of hell. More than just the accident. There’s this brittleness to her, like she’s been trying to hold herself together with duct tape and day-old coffee.
“Alright,” I say, gently touching her wrist to keep her awake. “No sleeping deep, remember?”
She nods, barely.
When Shepard returns, we get her bandaged up, warm, and tucked in. She curls into the blanket, one hand still loosely hanging near Gus, who flops down beside her like the good dog he is.
I tilt my head toward the hallway.
“She’s out,” I murmur.
We step into Shepard’s bedroom, and I close the door behind us.
“What the fuck, man?”
“I didn’t know what else to do,” Shepard says, running both hands through his hair. “She was begging me not to take her in. She’s scared of something. Or someone.”
I exhale through my nose. “You went against procedure.”
“I know.”
“She could’ve blacked out at any second. She could’ve been bleeding internally.”
“I know,” he says again. “But she was panicking. Boone—she said if Jake finds out, she’ll lose her job. She’s not from here. This contract, it means something to her.”
That quiets me.
Because I remember the look on her face when I handed her that coffee earlier. The one she didn’t want. Like she was too afraid to want anything at all.
Shepard flops down on the edge of the bed. I lean against the dresser, arms crossed.
“You’ve got a soft spot for her,” I say after a beat.
“I don’t know what I’ve got,” he says. “But she ran into that ditch because she was crying.”
That hits like a sucker punch.
“And I can’t stop thinking about that.”
I look at him. My friend. My packmate. The one who never brings anyone around. The one who hasn’t looked at a woman twice since Camilla.
Now he’s standing in his bedroom next to a girl in his sweatshirt.
“She’s your problem now?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “She’s our problem. You have to help her. She has nobody else in this town.”
That, more than anything, makes my chest ache.
Because the girl on the couch looks like she’s spent her whole life being someone’s property.
And now she’s here.
In our town.
In our care.
“Fine,” I mutter to Shepard, pinching the bridge of my nose. He looks like hell warmed over—wet hair curling behind his ears, worry sitting sharp across his face.
I know the feeling. I’ve worn it too many times.
Before I can say anything else, the front door opens.
“You will not believe the day I’ve had—” Gabe’s voice cuts in, boots heavy on the floor.
Then he sees her.
“What the fuck is going on?”
He’s already halfway into the living room, his jacket still on, rain slicking down his sleeves. I raise my hands, trying to settle the tension before it boils.
“She’s okay. Kind of,” I say.
Shepard clears his throat. “She hit her head. Drove into a ditch trying to avoid a squirrel. I found her on Harbor Ridge.”
Gabe’s eyes narrow as he crouches down near the sofa where she’s curled up under Shepard’s sweatshirt. Gus is curled beside her like a personal heater, tongue lolling lazily. Sadie doesn’t stir.
“You serious?” Gabe says, voice low.
“She didn’t want to go to the hospital,” Shepard adds. “We tried. I figured it was better to keep an eye on her here than have her try to talk her way out of the ER with a busted head.”
“She’s got a mild concussion, possibly a sprain in her wrist,” I say. “Vitals stable. I’ve run everything I can from here.”
“She said the mayor might cancel her contract if he finds out about the crash,” Shepard explains. “She was panicking.”
Gabe exhales slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Alright. We keep an eye on her. But if she so much as twitches wrong, I’m carrying her ass to the hospital myself.”
“Agreed,” I say.
Gabe pulls out his phone and taps out a message.
“What are you doing?” Shepard asks.
“Calling Elias,” Gabe says. “He knows a guy with a tow truck. Discreet. If we leave the truck out there too long, someone’s gonna notice.”
He’s right. Small towns are built on quiet secrets—and louder gossip.
“She said her sketchbooks and groceries were in there,” Shepard says. “I grabbed what I could.”
“You sure she’s safe here?” Gabe asks me.
“For tonight?” I nod. “As long as we wake her every four hours. Just to make sure.”
“I’ll do the first round,” Shepard offers. “She’s already more relaxed around me.”
“You’re soft,” Gabe mutters.
“I’m also the reason she didn’t bleed out in a ditch, so…”
“Touché.”
We settle into the usual rhythms. It’s comforting, how smoothly it all clicks into place when the three of us are in the same room. We’ve been through enough emergencies to know who takes lead, who keeps the fire burning, who cracks the jokes to stop us from unraveling.
We figure out dinner next—mac and cheese with steak slices from Gabe’s grocery run. Simple. Carby. Easy enough to reheat when Sadie’s hungry again. Gabe handles the steak, Shepard boils the pasta, and I sneak glances at her every few minutes while we prep.
She doesn’t stir, not even when Gus shifts beside her or when Shepard gently adjusts the blanket around her shoulders. That makes me uneasy.
The first wake-up is scheduled for 9:45. Shepard nudges her gently, brushing damp hair from her cheek.
“Sadie,” he whispers. “Hey, need you to wake up for a second, okay?”
Her eyes flutter open, dazed and heavy-lidded.
“I’m here,” she murmurs, voice hoarse.
“You know where you are?” I ask from across the room.
She blinks slowly, then nods. “Yeah. The apartment.”
“Can you tell me what month it is?”
She frowns, thinks for a beat. “October?”
“Good,” I say. “Drink some water. Then you can sleep again.”
She does as she’s told, barely able to keep her eyes open.
The second check is mine.
I sit beside the sofa, watch her breathe for a minute before gently nudging her arm. Her eyes peel open, pupils sluggish but responsive.
“You okay?” I ask.
“Still here,” she whispers.
“Good.”
She’s tougher than she looks.
At midnight, it’s Gabe’s turn. He sits on the coffee table, rubbing his jaw before waking her up with a careful touch to her shoulder.
“You alive?”
She cracks an eye open. “Just barely.”
“You’re doing fine,” he says, softer than I expect. “Just one more check before you can crash fully.”
“Deal,” she mutters.
Then she drifts off again, and Gabe lingers a second longer than he should, studying her.
“She really doesn’t trust anyone, does she?” he says to me, low enough not to wake her.
“Not yet.”
Gabe nods. “We’ll earn it.”
The storm rages outside, wind clattering against the windows, but inside it’s warm. Safe. Familiar.
I sit in the armchair, watching the rain blur against the glass, and I know without a doubt: we’re already in this. Whether we meant to be or not. And we’re not letting her fall again.
Not on our watch.