Page 167 of Snared Rider

“How’s he doing?”

“He’s grumpy,” Dorothy tells me. “But he seems better.”

This is a relief. As with most of these boys, if he’s grumping, he’s feeling better. And this is fantastic news. Dean was hurt badly by Wilson, so badly I was scared for him. Being kept away from him when he needed me the most was hard. So, hearing he’s moody makes me feel reassured.

I turn to Logan who gives me a chin lift. “Go see him.”

And this is why I love Logan, because he knows what I need. Always. And he knows right now I need time with Dean without interruption and without an audience. I roll onto my toes and kiss him.

“I won’t be long.”

“Take as long as you need.”

I make my way up the stairs and to the back bedroom. It’s a room I remember vividly. I spent such a lot of time here over the years. Dorothy looked after me more times than I can count while Dad was on a run. Plus, Dean and I were close growing up. Many nights were spent in his room, watching movies, or playing video games.

It feels weird, yet oddly natural to be here now and for him to be here, too.

Gently, I knock on the door and when I hear Dean’s voice I push inside.

His old room hasn’t changed since we were kids. I thought Dorothy might have redecorated (Dad filled my old bedroom with two decades worth of junk within a week of me leaving), but it’s the same dark blue wallpaper and the same old pine furniture.

The only difference is Dean. He’s no longer a teenager, but a grown man. He looks massive in the single bed and completely out of place. I have to resist the urge to giggle at the floral blanket covering his hips.

“Beth,” he says my name with a hint of surprise. Did Dorothy not tell him I was dropping in?

“Hey,” I move into the room and hover at the edge of the bed.

His beard is too long and needs trimming—a side effect of his long hospital stay, no doubt—and his hair is mussed, like he just woke up. I don’t miss the bags beneath his eyes, nor the fact his face is drawn.

He shifts up the bed, wincing a little at the movement, and his khaki coloured T-shirt rucks up on his left side revealing a yellowy bruise. I try not to focus on it. I know his tee is hiding the worst of his injuries, but I can’t think about that. Thinking about it puts me back on that hook inside Hazelwood.

“Should you be up?”

His question breaks through the darkness invading my thoughts and my eyes focus on his face.

“What?”

He frowns at me. “Are you okay?”

No.

I force my eyes to roll. I have to keep it together.

“Don’t you start. I get enough of this from Logan and Dad.”

He doesn’t take his eyes off me, and I see the underlying concern. However, he doesn’t say anything; no doubt he has been fielding questions since that night himself, so he knows how it feels. I’m grateful he doesn’t push me.

After a moment, Dean pats the edge of the bed, indicating I should take a seat. I oblige, perching on the edge, careful not to jostle him.

“Are you doing okay?”

So, he’s clearly not letting it go.

Shit.

The last thing I want to do is share abduction stories. The last thing I want to do full stop is talk about Simon fucking Wilson. All I want to do is assure Dean I’m on the mend and that what happened wasn’t his fault. I don’t want to discuss how I feel, or get into the finer points of what happened in that colliery building (or outside it).

“Yeah, honey, I’m good.” Or at least I’m as close to good as I can be. “I’ll be better when everyone forgets about this shit, so I can get back to normal life.”

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