Page 75 of Scarlet Angel

Dread explodes with the force of a land mine.

No. Please no.

“She’s overdosed. Do you have medication?”

I blink, processing.She’s alive?

“Naloxone?” Scarlet yells, breaking through.

Right. I have it.

I turn, yelling back to her, “I’ll get it. Where is she? In the stable?”

“In a stall.”

“Go back to her,” I shout.

I slip into autopilot and grab the unopened box from the medicine cabinet. The one a doctor recommended I keep around.

It had to have been Amir. I should’ve never trusted him to keep her safe. She must’ve found her old mates and brought drugs back with her. Shit. This is my fault. I should’ve had security around her. I shouldn’t have trusted she was okay. I should’ve spent more time with her. Watched her more closely. Hired more staff.

Where the hell is the stable hand?

When I reach the stall, I freeze. The unnatural deep blue hue of Lina’s lips arrests me.

Scarlet’s over her, rubbing her sternum, talking to her.

“Give me that,” she says, holding out her hand.

It takes a second to register. She’s pointing at the box in my hand.

“Is she…is she alive?”

She can’t die. Not Lina.

“She’s alive.” She pops open the box, removes the dose, pushes it up Lina’s nose, and presses the plunger. “Can you bring a car around? This should work, but let’s bring her in. How far is the hospital?”

Scarlet’s focus is 100 percent on Lina. She hovers over her, attending to her, and her words hit me with a velocity I can’t grasp in my shock.

The trip to the hospital blurs. I drive. Lina lies in the back seat, and Scarlet kneels on the floorboard.

Lina gains consciousness before we arrive at the hospital, but she’s high. Spacey. I can’t tell if she sees me.

The doctor asks what she took, and it’s Scarlet who hands him a used needle. I should’ve thought of that…looked for it.

It’s Scarlet who takes my hand and leads me to a waiting room. They’ve admitted Lina but have asked us to wait. A nurse comes out with information on rehabilitation centers. They’ll keep Lina here until she’s stable, but they recommend we admit her for drug rehabilitation.

It’s my fault. I should’ve been more on top of this. More vigilant.

Scarlet brings me coffee. Holds my hand. An angel.

“Are you okay?” She touches my jaw, and I grasp her wrist, pressing her palm against my cheek.

“Thank you.” It’s the only phrase that fits.

“How long has she struggled with addiction?”

What’s the answer to that? The excessive drinking during her university years—was that addiction or the slide into it?

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