Chapter 23
Alexandria
The second they’re gone, Gunnar and Torin shift back, fur burning away as their bodies snap upright.
Gunnar drops to his knees beside Orson and rolls him onto his back, one hand already searching for the wound.
Orson’s eyes are open but unfocused, his mouth moving without sound as blood spreads fast beneath him.
“Stay with me,” Gunnar says.
Torin is down on his other side at once. “Where is it?”
“Side—low.” Gunnar’s hand slips under Orson’s ribs, coming away slick. “Here.”
Torin presses in over it, hard enough that Orson jerks, a rough sound catching in his throat.
“Hold that.”
“I am.”
“Don’t you pass out,” Gunnar snaps, voice sharp with something close to anger. “Stay with me.”
“Let’s get him in the truck,” Torin says.
I’m already moving, running ahead to yank the rear doors open.
Gunnar hauls Orson up under the arms while Torin takes his legs, and together they carry him toward me, blood slicking over my fingers as I reach in to help, pressing my hand down where Gunnar was holding.
It’s hot. Too soft under the blood.
They lift him into the truck, Gunnar half forcing him across the seat as his body starts to slide.
Torin climbs in after him, bracing him with one hand already back on the wound, and I scramble in beside them, catching Orson before he folds completely.
“Hey—stay with me,” I say, gripping his jaw and turning his face toward me.
His eyes flicker, struggling to focus.
The truck fishtails as Gunnar guns it down the track.
Orson jerks against me with a broken sound, his body fighting for something it can’t quite hold onto.
“Stay with me,” I say again, tightening my grip as his head lolls, then lifts a fraction, his eyes glassy and unfocused.
“Shift,” Gunnar says from the front, sharp. “Do it now.”
Orson’s body tenses like he’s trying, every muscle pulling tight—then it gives.
“I can’t,” he rasps.
Torin squeezes his shoulder. “Try again.”
Orson’s mouth opens, but no sound comes out this time, his eyes rolling back before dragging forward again with visible effort.
“Stay awake,” Gunnar snaps.
The truck hits a rut and bucks hard, throwing us all sideways.
I brace him, dragging his weight back against me as he starts to slump again, his body going loose in a way that makes something in my chest tighten.
Torin adjusts his hand, leaning in closer, checking.
“It’s slowing,” he says.
The blood isn’t surging anymore.
Gunnar glances back. “Talk to me.”
“It’s clotting.”
Orson drags in a shallow breath, uneven.
His eyes open again, unfocused, but there.
“Come on,” Torin mutters under his breath.
Gunnar keeps the truck moving fast, the forest sliding past in a blur of dark and light.
Orson fades in and out against me, his weight shifting, his breathing catching and settling and catching again.
From time to time, we all exchange panicked glances. The fear in the brothers’ eyes drives my own.
By the time the lodge comes into view, Orson is barely conscious.
Gunnar drives straight up to the door and slams on the brakes.
“Let’s go.”
The engine is still running as the doors fly open.
The two of them haul Orson out between them.
He’s deathly pale, and not even groaning anymore.
We go straight through to the kitchen and get him onto the table.
Gunnar and Torin lifting together and laying him flat.
I reach in to help, tugging his shirt open and peeling it back where it’s soaked through with blood, then flick on the overhead light.
It’s just under the ribs. The entry wound is small, almost neat, but the skin around it is slick with blood.
Torin inspects it closely. “It’s still in there,” he says.
Gunnar turns to the counter, grabs a knife and heats it in the flame from the stove.
“Hold him.”
Torin leans his weight in. I move to Orson’s shoulders, pinning him as he stirs, a low sound catching in his throat.
Gunnar sets the blade to the wound.
“Now.”
He cuts in fast.
Orson bucks under us, a raw sound tearing out of him as his body arches.
“Keep him still.”
Torin bears down, and I put everything I’ve got into holding Orson in place as he fights it, his strength coming in short, desperate bursts.
Gunnar drops the knife and drives his fingers into the cut, searching blind, his hand slick with blood.
“Got it—”
He digs deeper, then pulls back.
The bullet hits the table with a sharp, metallic sound.
The blood comes faster again.
Torin clamps down hard, leaning his weight into it.
Gunnar reaches past me, grabs a clean dish towel from beside the sink and folds it once, tight.
“Here.”
I press it down over Torin’s hand, feeling it soak through almost at once.
There’s a second cloth, then a third, and at long last, the bleeding slows.
The brothers sigh out long breaths.
I look at Gunnar. “Is he going to be okay?”
“Should be,” he says. He goes to the kitchen drawers, pulls out a dressing and tape and covers the wound neatly.
Torin rolls his shoulders. “Let’s get him to bed.”
Gunnar slides an arm under Orson’s shoulders. Torin takes his legs and they lift him together, careful now, keeping him level as they carry him out of the kitchen.
I follow.
They take him down the hallway and into his room.
The curtains are drawn. A narrow bed pushed against the wall, a furry rug piled on top.
They lay him down.
Orson makes a faint sound as they move him, then settles again, his breathing shallow but regular.
Torin watches him for a moment, then he steps back.
“I’ll deal with my stuff,” he says, indicating his own blood-soaked shoulder, and leaves us.
“Does he need help?”
“No, he’ll be okay,” Gunnar replies.
There’s blood on Orson’s chest and along his ribs, drying in places, still wet in others.
I go into the bathroom, grab a towel, fill up a glass of water and bring them back.
Gunnar flashes a look of gratitude as he lifts Orson’s head and I tilt the glass, letting a little water into his mouth.
Then I clean as much of the blood away as I can, working carefully around the bandage.
The room is quiet now, the urgency from before settling into something heavier. Tiredness overwhelms me and I sit down on the end of the bed.
Gunnar sits on the edge of a wooden crate and looks at me. “He wouldn’t have made it without you.”
I shake my head. “I just did what I could.”
“He’s done nothing but hurt you,” Gunnar says, his voice lower now.
I keep my eyes on Orson, watching the rise and fall of his chest. “He’s your brother. He was just trying to protect you all.”
He clicks his tongue. “You’re a really good person, Alexandria.”
I shake my head. “I killed someone today.”
“You were a warrior, Alexandria. A part of the clan.”
I startle at the admiration in his voice. “I had to, right?”
“If you hadn’t, we wouldn’t all be here right now.”
I turn that over for a long moment.
“And you killed the … the Russian.” I stare into space, remembering how Gunnar’s beast tore his throat out. And how his men left his dead body on the road. “Does this mean it’s over?”
He gives a deep nod. “It’s over, Alexandria.”