Page 54 of In the Dark of the Past

“Yeah, I noticed.”

She shot me a look that would’ve singed anyone else. “Smartass.”

It was ridiculous, the way my chest eased at the sound of it. Like as long as she still had enough fight in her to snark at me, things couldn’t be that bad.

Headlights swung around the curve, bouncing between the trees. The patrol SUV slid to a stop at the trailhead, tires throwing up mud. Linton spilled out first, all long limbs and rookie nerves, followed by, surprisingly, Atlas Dunn, moving at a slower, steadier pace that said his knees felt the weather coming before his brain did.

Atlas clocked the scene in one sweep. Me bleeding, River shaking. His gaze lingered half a beat on the way River stood—feet braced, chin lifted—then he nodded once, like something in him approved.

“Hey,” he drawled. “Heard there was a party and you forgot to send invites.”

“Knife party,” I said. “Not as fun as advertised. And not as good as the dub-step.”

“Jesus, Finn.” River glared at me. “Stop talking.”

“Can’t,” I said. “If I stop, I might fall over.”

Linton walked up. “You said one in custody?”

“In the mud over there, behind the fallen tree,” I confirmed. “Flex cuffs. Weapon’s there.” I nodded toward the knife, lying a couple of feet away where it had landed. “Don’t touch the handle. Print it and bag it.”

Linton unsnapped his holster just in case and reached for gloves. “Yes, sir.”

He moved in, cautious and efficient, reciting the Miranda rights as he knelt to check the suspect’s bonds. The guy groaned and spewed some vitriol I didn’t catch, likely more offended than hurt, which told me he was definitely going to be a pain in my ass.

Atlas stepped closer, his hand hovering near my good shoulder without quite touching. “You look like hammered shit.”

“Love you, too.” My lip quirked on one side.

He grunted. “Ambulance is on the way. You stay upright until then, or I’ll tell your sister I found you crying in the mud.”

“I don’t have a sister.”

“Exactly. I’ll tell her anyway. She’ll show up just to be disappointed in you.”

River actually huffed a laugh. It sounded half-hysterical and half-relieved. I shot Atlas a look that said thanks without having to spell it out.

Sirens wailed, the sound getting closer, then cut as the medic unit pulled up behind the cruiser in the distance. The paramedic I knew—Ainjil—jumped out, dragging a trauma kit and a blanket. She gave me one look and shook her head.

“Couldn’t stay out of trouble for one damn week, could you?” she muttered, snapping on gloves.

“You’d be disappointed if I got boring,” I said.

She peeled River’s tee back from the wound. Cold air hit hot flesh, and I sucked in a breath. “That’s deep,” she said, more to herself than to me. “Not arterial, though. You’d be dead already if he’d hit anything that mattered.”

“Comforting.”

“Hold still.” She flushed it with some saline. It felt like she’d poured liquid fire straight into my bones. My vision went white at the edges.

River stepped closer, her hand finding my uninjured biceps, fingers digging in. I focused on that—on the warmth of her skin through the wet material, the slight tremor in her grip, and the way her eyes locked on mine like she could anchor me by sheer stubbornness.

“In and out, Callahan,” she said. “You pass out on me, and I’m making you do a hundred hours of mindfulness therapy.”

“God, no,” I gritted. “I’ll stay awake.”

Ainjil wrapped a proper pressure bandage tight around my arm after cleaning it, then taped it down hard enough to make my fingers tingle. “You need stitches. And probably a tetanus shot.”

“Great. Love needles.”