Page 39 of The KING Review

Vida is still looking at me as we make a move to leave. “Has something happened?” she asks, eyes never leaving my face.

I open my mouth to fire back a denial—aka, a lie—but as we start toward the door, I promptly stumble on the step down from the bar. It’s not a dramatic tumble, but my right foot rolls under me, and pain zings up my ankle so sharply the breath shoots from my lungs.

I try to play it off—make a histrionic, injured noise, do a weird hop-skip—but Vida frowns.

“I’m fine,” I say, way too brightly.

“Are you?” she asks, voice dry as dust. “You’re doing the thing with your face.”

“I’m not— Wait, what thing with my face?”

Her frown deepens as she studies me, and I try to keep my pace even in the direction of the door.

River comes up behind me after a few steps, gentle hand steadying my elbow. “You okay?” Concern radiates off him. “You’re limping.”

“I’m not limping,” I protest, then immediately wince when my ankle tries to send a distress flare up my leg. I grit my teeth and suck in a breath through my mouth. “Okay, so I’m… mildly inconvenienced.”

River tilts his head. “You’re hurt,” he says, firmer this time.

“I thought he was supposed to be the bossy one,” I say, pointing at Wren, who just lifts a brow, unimpressed.

Vida circles, blocking my path so I have to stop abruptly. It’s not particularly helpful, and it hurts, but it does stop me moving. “Do you need to go to the ER?”

“No, I do not need to go to the ER.” The words come out so fast they practically trip over each other. “We are not doing this again. You’re just a bad luck charm—and I don’t want another fucking boot.”

River clicks his tongue, soft but firm, crowding my space just enough to make it clear he’s not going to let me get away with this. His hand doesn’t leave my elbow. “You might need one.”

“It’s not that bad. I’m not limping, I’m… hobbling. There’s a difference.” I try to bounce on my good foot, but all I manage is a wince and a very unsexy grimace when the weight lands on my right side on accident. “I’ve had worse. Last time, I got to the end of the night before I even realized I was hurt.”

“I don’t doubt it.” River’s tone is dry, but I can see the concern etched in every line of his face. He’s got the world’s gentlest hands, but he’s not letting go of my arm. “I know you don’t want to go to the ER, but you can’t ignore it.”

My stomach’s twisting itself into knots—not just from the pain, but that lurching, invisible dread that comes with the mention of hospitals in any guise, but especially the emergency room.

I can’t do this. I’m not doing this.

We’re out on the street now, the bright slap of early evening air in my face, everything spinning a little. I make it three more steps before my ankle zings again, sharper this time. I hiss through my teeth, clutching the strap of my bag until my knuckles go bloodless.

River is patient, like he’s used to stubborn idiots trying to out-walk their injuries, but I see the soft in his eyes, too. He’s built for holding people up.

“I’m fine, I swear,” I insist. “If you’re worried about missing your flight, don’t be. Just go ahead.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about,” he says—genuinely, which kind of ruins my argument. “Just let us help. Please?”

He’s almost too nice. It pisses me off, actually. I look away, scowling. That’s when I notice Wren talking low to Vida, his mouth at her ear. She nods, eyes cutting to me, and then she leans in and kisses his cheek. “Yeah, please. Thanks.”

It’s like a goddamn mafia move. I clock it, but before I can brace myself, Wren strides straight over, all effortless menace. He’s taller than River, lean and sharp-angled, eyes glacial green and unreadable.

I square up to him, as much as you can square up to a six-foot-something defenseman while standing on one leg. “You ever heard of personal space?” It’s bravado and nothing else. My pulse is jackhammering at my throat so hard he can probably see it.

Wren smirks. “Okay, look. He’s been reasonable.” He tilts his chin toward River. “So, just… don’t scream, all right?”

Before I can snark back, he’s got me. Two huge hands, one motion. The ground disappears in a vertigo flash, and I’m slung sideways, draped over his arms bridal style. My dress rides up, and I shriek, but it’s less I’m-being-murdered and more small-startled-prey-animal.

“Put me down!” I beat my fists against his shoulder, though it’s less satisfying than I’d expect. He’s built like a marble statue; I could probably bruise my knuckles, and he wouldn’t even notice.

“Nope,” he clips, totally unbothered. “You’ll just keep running your mouth—or worse, trying to actually run—and hurt yourself worse.”

I try to kick, but my ankle yelps, and I bite my tongue to keep from actually screaming. The humiliation is instant. My face is burning, and Vida’s voice floats up from somewhere behind me, gentle despite her laughter. “Stop fighting. We’re taking you. You know we have to.”