Page 86 of Almost Rotten

“Hang on. You’re okay,” I promise as I grip her upper arm and guide it back toward the bush.

She flinches, and I end up getting pricked on the back of my hand.

“Don’t fight me,” I instruct. The last thorn is in deep, tugging at her skin no matter which way I move or manipulate her arm.

“Noah,” she cries.

Shit.

Desperate to rid her of pain, I grip the branch, snap it off the vine, and break it free from the bush completely. Several prickers embed themselves in my palm in the process, but I can fucking take it.

What I can’t take is allowing this woman to suffer any longer.

“Hold still.” I move the branch, finding the right angle, and pull the thorn up and back, finally freeing her.

As blood surfaces and pools, my heart beats louder in my ears. I’ll have to take special care treating that one. There’s a chance a piece of the thorn is still embedded.

“I hate blood.” Her whisper is barely audible over the rain.

“Then I’d suggest not looking.”

“I’m sorry,” she sniffles. “I didn’t mean to make you come out here after me.”

Her tone is full of defeat, so lifeless, so unlike her.

“You have nothing to apologize for.” I brush the hairs sticking to her forehead back. “I told you: you’re safe with me.”

As she searches my face, her lip quivers, but she’s finally out of tears.

“I’m going to carry you back to the house now.”

When she doesn’t argue, relief rushes through me. I’m in no mood to fight, and that wasn’t a request.

I scoop her up, and she throws her arms around my neck. The trek back to the house is slow. I take my time, avoiding puddles and ensuring my footing is solid.

Eventually, she rests her head on my shoulder, the warm puffs of each exhale tickling my neck.

“Mercer’s going to be so mad,” she says quietly.

She’s right. Anger is Mercer’s default emotion.

But she slotted perfectly into our lives, and I’m not alone in wanting to ensure she stays there.

I climb the stairs to the front porch and pause on the threshold. “He just wants you safe, honey. We both do.”

Chapter thirty-four

Mercer

Iput in an urgent message to the shift supervisor the second I returned to my bedroom.

In all my years volunteering for Better Yet, I’ve never called out or been late for a shift. The work is too important, the mission too close to my heart. But tonight, there’s a dominant purpose that needs my attention.

The supervisor directed me to clear my queue, then took me offline for the night.

After I finish my last call, I frantically type out the notes, torn between doing the job I’m committed to do and getting out there as fast as I can.

The sound of the front door opening does nothing to soothe my frantic, spiraling thoughts.