Chapter 12 #2
Only a terrible, focused calm as his focus shifts from me to the body on the floor and back again. “Are you hurt?”
I shake my head.
He crosses the kitchen in three quick strides, his hands gentle as they cup my jaw, thumbs brushing over my cheeks as he checks for injuries. “Talk to me, trouble. Are you hurt?”
“N-no,” I manage. “I’m—”
“Don’t say you’re sorry,” he cuts in. “Don’t say anything except answers to my questions.”
His hands drop to my shoulders, giving them a gentle squeeze. “Sit down and put your head between your knees if you need to. Breathe. I’ve got this.”
He doesn’t wait for my response, already moving back toward the living room, pulling out his phone as he goes. “Saint? I need you at 328 Crescent Street, apartment 4B. Bring one of my bags. And a bottle of the good whiskey.”
A pause.
“No. Not for me.”
The phone goes back into his pocket, and Orien returns to the kitchen, giving nothing away as he studies the scene. He kneels beside the body, fingers finding the Alpha’s throat.
After a moment, he shakes his head. “He’s gone.”
“I don’t—” My throat tightens, choking me off, and I clear it. “What do I—”
Orien rises, crossing to rummage under the sink for trash bags, then wets a dish towel. “Did anyone else see you come in?”
I shake my head. “Just…just him. He was waiting. He said he’s been watching me.”
A muscle twitches in Orien’s jaw. “Did he hurt you?”
My hand rises to my throat, and pain flares beneath my fingertips, evidence of the bruises already forming. “Only my pride.”
A moment later, Orien is in front of me again, the wet dish towel in his hand. “Give me your hands.”
I hold them out, still shaking, covered in drying blood. Orien takes them in his, the touch gentle as he wipes away the evidence of what I’ve done.
“He forced his way in,” Orien says with calm certainty. “He would have killed you if you’d given him the chance. You defended yourself. Nothing more.”
It’s not all that happened, and we both know it. But the simplicity of his statement and his calm certainty ease the tightness in my chest enough that I can breathe.
After cleaning my hands, Orien drops the bloodied towel into the trash bag and reaches for me again, his thumb brushing over my lower lip. “You’re safe now. I promise.”
A knock sounds at the door, once, three times, then once again.
“That’s Saint. He’s one of Rowan’s people,” Orien says, straightening. “Stay right here. Don’t touch anything. Don’t look at him.” He cups my nape and squeezes. “I’ve got this, trouble. I’ve got you.”
He strides to the door and opens it with a quiet word to whoever stands on the other side. Two sets of footsteps enter the apartment, and quiet voices exchange information I can’t hear.
The sight of my clean hands clashes with the blood on my shirt and the body on my kitchen floor, leaving me struggling to make sense of what just happened.
Orien reappears with another Alpha, this one younger, with a shaved head and a square jaw.
He wears a canvas jacket that does nothing to hide the breadth of him.
He carries a black duffel bag in one hand and a bottle of whiskey in the other.
He takes in the body on my floor with the same look most people reserve for a broken appliance.
Without asking, Saint holds the bottle out to me, and I take it with shaking hands. Popping the top, I take a long drink, the burn helping to jolt me out of my fog of shock.
They move through my apartment, Orien giving instructions to Saint, who begins unpacking the duffel bag.
I stay where Orien put me, watching as Saint pulls on a pair of latex gloves and kneels beside the body. He checks the Alpha’s pockets, removing a wallet and phone, which he hands to Orien without comment.
They work quickly, spreading a black plastic sheet beside the body before rolling it onto the material. Blood smears across my tile, and Orien moves in with a spray bottle and rags, wiping it away before it can dry.
“I need bleach,” he says, not looking up from his task.
“Under the sink,” I whisper.
He finds it without further direction, adding it to the spray bottle before continuing to clean. The acrid chemical scent cuts through the copper tang of blood, burning at the back of my sinuses.
Saint works to wrap the body in plastic with practiced movements. “He’s heavier than he appears.”
“Yeah, we’ll need the cart from the car.”
Saint rises, stripping off his bloody gloves and replacing them with a fresh pair from his pocket. “I’ll get it.”
He leaves through the front door, closing it quietly behind him, and Orien continues wiping down surfaces, removing every trace of blood. Without asking, he puts the wine chiller into the garbage bag with the bloody rags.
Orien isn’t only Rowan’s cleanup man. He’s the person called when something needs to disappear without question. The one who erases problems so completely that no one thinks to search for them.
And he’s doing it for me.
The smell of bleach follows Orien into the living room. The desk lies in pieces, glass scattered across the hardwood. My bookshelf is on its side, novels in disarray. A lamp lies broken beside the nightstand, the shade torn.
Orien works through it, picking up the larger pieces of glass, wiping down surfaces where the Alpha might have touched, checking for blood spatter I hadn’t even noticed. He finds my phone where it fell during the struggle and sets it on the counter without comment.
The front door opens again, and Saint returns with a folded handcart, the kind movers use for appliances. He unfolds it with a quiet click, positioning it beside the wrapped body.
“Ready?” he asks.
“Yep.”
Together, they lift the plastic-wrapped form onto the cart. It’s not graceful. Dead weight never is. But they manage it with a minimum of noise, securing the body with bungee cords before covering it with a blanket from Saint’s bag.
“Building has cameras in the stairwell and elevator,” Orien says, already moving toward the door. “I’ll take care of the footage on our way out.”
“Sounds good.” Saint adjusts his grip on the cart. “The car is in the service entrance. No one saw me come in.”
They’ve done this before. Many times, from the ease with which they move, the quiet understanding between them.
Orien comes to kneel in front of me. “How are you holding up?”
I don’t have an answer. My hands have stopped shaking, but I still can’t quite believe what’s happening. What Orien’s doing for me.
He takes my hands, turning them palm up to check for any cuts or scrapes I might have missed in the fight. Finding none, he settles them back on my thighs. “May I check you for injuries?”
I nod.
His gentle touch moves over my arms, my shoulders, my chest. He finds the glass cuts first, small and shallow, thanks to my thick cardigan, where I went through the desk.
Next comes the bruising along my ribs where I landed hard.
When he reaches my throat, his hands still, his thumbs resting just below the darkest of the marks the Alpha’s fingers left. A dangerous tension settles over him.
“You did well defending yourself,” he says.
I nod again.
His hands leave my throat, and Orien sits back on his heels. “I need to ride with Saint to ensure our friend gets where he’s going.”
“Yeah.”
He stands, then pauses, looking down at me. “I need you to strip. Everything with blood on it.”
I blink up at him.
“Everything you’re wearing, including your nape guard,” he says, leaving no room for argument.
I look at Saint, who stands with his back to me, picking up the wreckage of my desktop.
Swallowing, I stand and strip. The cardigan goes first, followed by my shirt, revealing the bruising along my side and the deepening purple bruise spreading from my hip to my armpit.
Orien goes still. “Trouble.”
I don’t raise my head. “I’m fine.”
My fingers hesitate on my nape guard before I find the three spots and unlock it, dropping it into the bag. The pants follow. After a moment, I peel off the boxer briefs as well, step out of them, and straighten.
Orien holds the bag open, and I drop the last of it in.
“While we’re gone, you need to shower.” He ties off the garbage bag.
“Use hot water, and be thorough, focusing on your hairline, fingernails, and behind your ears. Check the drain when you’re done.
” He lifts the bag. “When you’re done, put on clean clothes and wait until I return.
Don’t leave. Don’t answer the door. Don’t call anyone. ”
“Okay,” I say.
He studies me for a long time, as if he doesn’t want to leave. “I’ll be back soon.”
“Thank you,” I manage.
He shakes his head. “Don’t thank me for this, trouble. Just…” He pauses, choosing his words with care. “Be here when I come back.”
“I will,” I promise.
He stares at me a moment longer, as if worried I’ll vanish the moment he steps out the door. Then he grabs the garbage bags and follows Saint into the hallway, closing the door behind him.
I stare around at the wreckage of my small apartment. I should call Alexei and tell him everything. He would want to know what happened.
Instead, I grab a change of clothes, the bottle of whiskey, and head into the bathroom.