Chapter 35 Tell Me What You Need
The porch was cold against my cheek. Somewhere beyond the roaring in my ears a door slammed open hard.
“Harper—”
I managed to roll my head just enough to see him.
Jackson dropped to his knees beside me. His hands hovered over my skin, shaking, like he was terrified to touch me and make anything worse. His eyes were wide and frantic, flicking over every injury, trying to figure out where the damage was worst.
I tried to speak, but only a cough came out.
“Hospital,” he said immediately.
I forced the word out. “No.”
“Harper—”
“No hospital.” My voice sounded wrong, hoarse and scraped raw. “Bring me inside.”
His brow furrowed hard. I could practically see the argument forming behind his eyes, but something in my expression must have stopped him. After a long second he nodded once.
His hands moved fast then. The flannel shirt came off his back and he wrapped it around me before scooping me up like I weighed nothing.
Every movement sent pain lancing through me, but I didn’t make a sound. I’d felt worse. I’d survived worse. His body radiated heat. The shirt smelled like him. So I focused on that while my head dropped against his shoulder.
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.
Jackson must have noticed because he crossed the room in two strides and sat beside me on the bed, pulling me carefully into his lap, blanket and all.
I tucked one hand into the front of his shirt and kept the other pressed against his chest. He wrapped both arms around me and looked at the doctor over the top of my head.
“You can examine her like this.”
The doctor opened his mouth, took one look at Jackson’s expression, then sighed and closed it again. “Alright.”
I hated unfamiliar men touching me. Hated how vulnerable I felt sitting there injured and exhausted. But Jackson’s heartbeat stayed steady against my back the entire time, so I endured it.
Dr. Reynolds worked fast. He never asked what had happened, which told me Jackson had already handled that conversation at the door.
He set my cracked arm in a sling, then spent a long moment studying the bite on my thigh before deciding it would need watching but not stitches.
Shifter healing would close it in a few days.
When he checked my pupils with a small light he told Jackson I had a concussion and that someone needed to keep eyes on me for the next twelve hours.
Jackson didn’t hesitate. “I’ll be here.”
The doctor nodded and packed his bag. At the door he paused, looking back at Jackson.
“Your mother was a good friend to me. I owe her this much.”
Jackson didn’t answer. He carefully shifted me off his lap, stood, and walked the doctor out.
A minute later he climbed back onto the bed and pulled me into his arms. My face pressed against the front of his shirt while his scent wrapped around me warm and familiar and safe. Woodsmoke. Wolf. Jackson.
For a few seconds he just held me there, one hand moving slowly through my damp hair while the other rested firm against my back, like he needed constant proof I was still solid and breathing under his hands.
Then quietly, “Harper… what the hell happened today?”
I stiffened automatically.
He felt it immediately. His arms tightened around me.
“Don’t try to deny it or lie to me,” he said softly. “I need to know what happened. I need to understand the threat.”
My throat tightened.
I wasn’t ready. I wasn’t sure I would ever be ready. But I couldn’t keep it buried anymore. Not after tonight. Not after he had patched me back together with blood still on his hands from helping me survive.
“Okay,” I whispered. “But first, I need your help.”
“With what?”
I stared at the dark fabric of his shirt for a second too long before answering.
“To hide a body.”
When I finally lifted my head and looked back at him, Jackson had gone utterly still.
“Whose body?” he asked at last.
I swallowed. “One bad man’s.”
His eyes narrowed slightly. “Harper.”
“He found me in the woods,” I said. “He attacked me and I killed him. I need you to help me deal with it before someone stumbles onto him.”
Jackson held my gaze for a long moment, trying to piece something together from the fragments I was giving him. Questions moved visibly behind his eyes. Alarm. Confusion. Anger.
But underneath all of it was something terrifyingly steady.
Decision.
Finally he exhaled slowly and dragged a hand through his hair.
“Tell me what you need,” he said.
I blinked at him.
“That’s it?”
His mouth tightened slightly. “No. It’s not it.” His hand came up to cup the side of my face gently. “Later, you’re going to tell me everything.”
Something in my chest twisted painfully at the certainty in his voice.
But all I managed was a quiet, exhausted, “Okay.”
He helped me dress in dark clothes, then pulled a knit cap over my damp hair so the wind wouldn’t catch it. When he was finished he stood at the foot of the bed and waited.
I closed my eyes for a second, mentally walking through the plan I'd hoped I'd never have to use.
“Bottom of my closet,” I said. “Behind the spare boots. There’s a black duffel.”
He went to the closet, pulled the duffel free, and brought it back to the bed. He set it down and unzipped it. Inside were single-use gloves, a bottle of scent spray, sealed plastic, and the folded blue tarp at the bottom.
He looked at the contents for a long second without speaking. Then he zipped it shut and looked at me.
“Garage,” I said. “Top shelf on the right. Grab the red gas can. The shovel’s behind the rake against the wall.”
He nodded once and went. A minute later he came back carrying the shovel in one hand and the gas can in the other. He set them beside the duffel, then knelt in front of me and pulled my boots onto my feet one at a time, tying the laces with steady hands. He didn’t look up while he did it.
When he finished he straightened, slung the duffel over one shoulder, hooked the shovel through the straps across his back, and grabbed the gas can. Then he held his free arm out.
“Lean.”
I leaned.
The walk took thirty minutes. He carried most of my weight through the trees while the last light filtered gold through the branches. My cat stayed alert enough to confirm we were alone. Once we reached the point where I had left the trail earlier, I pointed deeper into the trees.
“That way.”
Jackson glanced at the thick underbrush. “How far?”
“Half a mile. Maybe more. I’ll tell you when.”
Without another word, he adjusted his grip and stepped off the path. The underbrush caught at us immediately, but he took the brunt of every root and branch with one arm locked around my ribs. I kept my eyes on the ground and placed my feet where his landed.
We pushed deeper until the smell of blood cut through the damp forest air. Then the body came into view — grey-black fur, throat torn open, one ruined eye clouded pale beneath the dim light.
Jackson stopped walking. His hand on my waist went completely still.
“John,” he said.
His gaze lingered on the ruined body before lifting back to me.
“Harper. That’s John. From my pack.”
“Yes.”
“What the hell was he doing out here?”
“Later.”
“Harper.”
“Later, Jackson.”
He stared at me for a long second, then swallowed every question that wanted to come out. Whatever he saw on my face was enough to stop him.
He helped me onto a fallen trunk a few yards back from the body, pulled on the gloves, and looked at me.
“Tell me what to do.”
“We gather the torn clothes first,” I said. “Then burn as much as possible. It won’t erase everything, but it will destroy most of the scent and DNA. After that we bury what’s left deeper in the forest.”
Jackson inhaled slowly, then nodded. “Alright.”
He spread gasoline across the body and the surrounding ground, then struck the match.
The fire caught hard and fast. The smell of burning flesh hit almost immediately.
Nausea rolled through me so violently I had to turn away, pressing my sleeve over my mouth while old memories clawed hard at the back of my skull. My fingers dug into the bark beside me.
By the time the flames died down, the last light had gone copper at the edges of the sky. Jackson kicked dirt over the embers, spread the tarp, and rolled what remained of John onto it before knotting the corners shut. He hoisted the bundle over his shoulder.
“I’ll come back for the rest,” he said. “Lean.”
Roughly three hundred yards off any trail, I tapped his arm and pointed.
“Here. The roots won’t be too bad.”
He lowered the bundle, helped me settle against a tree, then went back for the gear. When he returned he pulled the shovel free and started digging.
I sat with my knees drawn up, pain settled into a low steady throb beneath my ribs. I watched in silence while Jackson worked without complaint, sweat dampening his shirt despite the cold. He followed my instructions on separating the soil layers.
When the hole was deep enough, he rolled the remains in and began filling it back in layer by careful layer. By the time he smoothed the final layer of moss into place, the forest had gone fully dark.
We returned to the original burn site. Jackson poured the last of the gasoline across the tarp and lit it.
Thick black smoke twisted upward as the plastic curled and melted.
He shifted afterward, his wolf tearing through the ash and scattering wet leaves and branches until the scorched ground looked closer to storm debris than anything deliberate.
When he shifted back, dirt streaked his chest and forearms.
“Better?” he asked.
I studied the clearing one last time before nodding.
“Yeah.”
By the time we made it back to the house, it was fully dark and the moon had risen above the trees.
After another shower and fresh bandages, we lay together in my bed beneath the blankets.
Jackson held me tightly against his chest, positioning himself instinctively between me and the bedroom door.
Under my palm, his heartbeat still raced too fast. I counted automatically before I could stop myself.
120 beats per minute. Far too high for resting.
“Are you ready to talk about it?” he asked into the darkness.
I exhaled slowly. Then, piece by piece, I started telling him everything.