Page 60 of Wraith

Hoping I don’t wake up and find it was all just wishful thinking.

Hoping that maybe, for once, something good is actually real.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Wraith

I wake to the smell of coffee and an empty bed.

For a second, my body goes tight with old instincts — scanning for threats, calculating exits, preparing for whatever comes next. Then I remember where I am. The Starlight Motor Lodge. June. The roses on the nightstand. The way she looked at me when I told her I wanted her to dominate me.

The space beside me still holds her warmth. I press my hand against the sheet and feel it there, fading but real. The bathroom door is open, light spilling out into the dim room. I hear the soft sound of the coffee maker gurgling.

My side aches. Not terrible, but enough to remind me I took a knife yesterday and got stitched up by a veterinarian who has more experience with poodles than people. I touch the bandage through my shirt — still dry, no bleeding through, which seems like a win.

The bathroom door opens wider, and June steps out, passes by the coffeemaker, and then comes over to me carrying two mugs of coffee. She’s dressed in the same jeans and t-shirt from yesterday, her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, and there’s something about the way the morning light catches her face that makes me stare.

She’s smiling. Not the guarded, careful smile I’m used to seeing. Just a genuine smile, easy and warm, like waking up and making coffee in a cheap motel room, is exactly where she wants to be.

“Morning,” she says, crossing to the bed. “I made coffee. The stuff’s actually not terrible.”

I sit up slowly, testing my body’s complaints. Everything hurts, but nothing hurts enough to matter. She hands me a mug, and I wrap my hands around it, feeling the heat seep into my palms.

“Thanks.”

“I got breakfast too.” She gestures toward the small table by the window where I can see white takeout containers stacked. “There’s a diner across the street. They do a pretty good spread: pancakes, bacon, eggs, this hash thing with peppers and potatoes, and cheese that looked amazing. I got everything.”

Of course she did. She handled it. Like she’s been handling everything.

I take a sip of coffee. It’s strong, slightly bitter, perfect. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know.” She sits on the edge of the bed, her own mug cradled in her hands. “But I wanted to. You need to eat. You lost blood yesterday, and you fought two guys, and you need to recover.”

There’s something in her voice. Something confident and matter-of-fact, as if she’s not asking permission or seeking approval. She’s just stating facts and deciding and handling things. New June. Responsible June. The woman who threatened a veterinarian and robbed a drug dealer and rode me and whipped me and sat on my face last night while I was cuffed to the headboard.

“How are you feeling?” she says.

“Sore. But okay.”

“Let me see your side.”

It’s not a question. I set my coffee down on the nightstand and lift my shirt. The bandage is still in place, white gauze taped across my ribs where Morrison stitched me up. June leans in close, her fingers gentle as she peels back the tape at one edge to check the wound beneath.

“It looks good,” she says. “No infection. The stitches are holding.”

Her touch is careful, and I watch her face as she examines the wound. There’s concentration there, focus, the same look she had yesterday when she was demanding tribute from that dealer. She knows what she’s doing. She’s not squeamish or uncertain. She’s just taking care of me as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“I’m going to clean it and put fresh bandages on,” she says, already moving toward the duffel bag on the floor where I put the first-aid kit I bought yesterday.

She pulls it out and returns to the bed and opens the kit with practiced efficiency, pulling out alcohol wipes and fresh gauze and antibiotic ointment and medical tape.

“This might sting a little,” she says, and then she’s cleaning around the edges of the wound with the alcohol wipe. Her touch is gentle but thorough, making sure everything’s clean before she applies some antibiotic ointment.

I watch her work. Her brow furrows slightly in concentration; her fingers move with careful precision. She checks and double-checks to make sure she’s not missing anything.

When did she learn this?

When did June Wilder become someone who could be trusted to handle anything?