“Don’t ever move after a crash, you hear me? Not ever!” He cupped her cheeks and tilted her face upward, squinting into her eyes. “Why were you driving so fast?”
“I thought you were trying to kill me.”
“What?” Not waiting for an answer, Tristan yanked his palm from a jacket pocket and jabbed at the screen for several seconds. Then he put his palm away and knelt on the street next to her, pulling at her arms and legs as though searching for hidden contraband. She tried to push him away, wincing as her injured hand made contact, but he ignored it. Now that her adrenaline was fading, his poking and prodding began to hurt. When he brushed her belly, Lila cried out, for her soreness had increased after the tumble.
“Oh shit, don’t move. Don’t move,” he pleaded.
“I’m okay, Tristan. Just stop poking me.”
He fell back on his ankles, his frown deepening. “I sent a message to Doc. He’ll be here in five minutes. Lie down until he gets here.”
“I don’t want to lie down.” In truth, Lila desperately wanted to lie down; she just didn’t want to lie down in the middle of the sidewalk.
“What happened?”
Lila opened her mouth and tried to answer, but she didn’t know what to say.
What had happened?
Both sets of brakes had failed somehow, and Pax had almost mourned a sister.
It all had happened so quickly, out of nowhere. Her death would have been stupid and commonplace and no one would have been surprised. A motorcycle accident in downtown New Bristol. Chief Randolph dead. Film at eleven.
This time, none of the regrets she’d gotten so used to had flashed through her head, and not because she didn’t have any. She’d just been too busy trying to live to regret anything. She had felt only panic.
Bone-clenching, pee-in-your-pants panic.
It slowly drained away, but it had nowhere to go.
Tristan touched her face at the wrong time. She gasped, and it was that small noise that broke something inside her. Tears spilled over her cheeks, and she gulped in air, struggling to breathe, still terrified, still in shock that she had managed to survive at all. She bowed her head, resting it on Tristan’s shoulder.
She didn’t just cry.
She fell apart, and she hated herself for it.
It was worse than how she’d cried after her mother had kicked her out. Lila had gotten hold of herself almost immediately, like a true highborn should, but she wasn’t sure she’d be able to do the same this time. Tristan’s nearness only made it worse. His strong arms enveloped her, trying so very hard not to squeeze too tightly.
He rested his chin on her forehead and stroked her back. The weight rubbed up and down against her leather jacket, warming her.
Occasionally, people leaned out of their cars to offer assistance, but Tristan waved them on. “Help is coming,” he assured them, and they moved on without another word.
Soon, a large truck filled with Tristan’s people stopped before them, half on the sidewalk to avoid traffic. Lila dug her face into Tristan’s neck, hiding her face while they loaded up her bike with stamping boots and quick shouts of “One, two, three, lift!”
All the while, she focused on her breathing. It was an attempt to settle her nerves and stop the flood of tears. Every time she drew breath, Tristan’s scent flooded her nose. He smelled of soap, a bit like whiskey, and a little like engine grease from the shop. It calmed her, and she drew his scent in deeper.
A pair of boots stopped beside her. She heard a rustle of fabric and a popping knee. A hand clasped Lila’s shoulder. “I’m a doctor, madam. Let me have a look at you.”
“I’m fine,” Lila said, glad to have her voice back at last.
“She’s not okay, Doc. She was crying.”
“It was only a little,” Lila said, her cheeks growing hot against Tristan’s neck.
“Now she’s grouchy. Forget everything, Doc, she must be better now if she’s grouchy.”
“I’m not grouchy.”
Doc chuckled, his deep voice rich and warm. ?