Page 49 of What We Become

Odin ignores him and gestures toward the SUV.

Holden steps closer to my chair. “Who’s driving?”

“My man will take you to the first switch point,” Odin says. “From there, one of you takes over in a different vehicle.”

“Why?” Holden asks.

“In case you’re being followed from here.”

There’s a beat where nobody says anything, because that answer is both infuriating and correct.

“Shotgun,” Milo mutters.

“You’re not calling shotgun in an evacuation,” Micah says.

“I’m absolutely calling shotgun in an evacuation. Civilization exists so that rules can endure under pressure.”

“No one sits shotgun,” Odin says. “The rear windows are tinted for a reason. Stay in the back.”

Milo’s face falls. “Spoilsport.”

Before anyone can say more, Odin steps closer to Holden. He lowers his voice—not enough to exclude the rest of us, but enough to signal a shift in register. “I’m still waiting on the complete Gable file.”

Holden glances pointedly at me in the wheelchair. “I’ve been a little preoccupied.”

Odin follows his gaze. His pale eye flickers, just once.

“Understandably,” he says. “That doesn’t change what I need. As soon as you’re settled.”

Holden nods.

Odin steps back and adjusts his cuff.

Knox apparently decides the discussion is over and starts moving. He wheels me toward the open door, and the others close around us automatically, a moving wall of muscle and vigilance and tailored menace in various states of casual dress. It should feel insane, being escorted like this. Excessive, even.

Instead, it feels safe enough to make my throat tighten.

I love these men. But this—the constant threat detection—I could do without.

The suited guy by the door steps aside when Knox reaches him. Up close, the SUV looks less like a car and more like something designed to survive a low-grade war. Blacked-out windows. Heavy frame. Clean enough to gleam, anonymous enough to disappear.

Outside, the air hits me. Pine and cold dirt and the thin, sharp clarity of altitude. Mountains on every side, dark green and silent, the sky a flat white overcast that makes the treeline look like a wall. After five days of recycled hospital air and antiseptic, it’s so clean it hurts my lungs.

“Easy,” Micah says, one hand hovering at my elbow as Knox turns the chair.

“I’m in a wheelchair, not active labor.”

Milo leans in as he passes. “Debatable. You’ve been verbally dilating for twenty minutes.”

I snort before I can stop myself, and it hurts just enough to remind me my insides are still tender. Micah’s face tightens instantly.

“I’m fine,” I say.

“You made a pained sound.”

“I made an offended sound.” I offer him a coy smile. “Give me a few more days and I’ll make an aroused sound.”

Micah’s cheeks go pink.