Page 121 of Outlaws of Tulsa

“They didn’t eat me,” I whisper.

Copper grunts. “No. They didn’t.”

I’d expected screaming or for him to lash out at me. Instead, he stares at me like I’ve disappointed him. Of all the thingshe could have done, this is the worst. I burst into tears, which makes the dogs whine.

“Enough of that,” Copper mutters. “I can’t deal with you crying.”

This only makes me cry harder.

I’ve failed.

The Royal Bastards. My siblings. The FBI.

And especially myself.

Copper

Stormy’s wet lashes flutter and her head lolls to the side as she passes out. Alarm chases away the fury that had been raging through me the moment I realized she’d run off. Now, all that matters is getting her skinny ass back inside where I can see to her injuries and warm her up.

“Good dogs,” I praise Hansel and Gretel. “You kept this idiot from freezing to death.”

Both animals whine with worry for our new “guest.”

“She’s going to be okay,” I assure them as I shoulder her bag and then slide my arms beneath her. “And when she’s feeling better, I’ll whip her ass for this stunt.”

Hansel barks at me as though he understands every goddamn word and doesn’t like that idea. Ignoring my dog, I scoop her up and start back to the house. Her body is cold, which is worrying, and her clothes are drenched from the melting snow. I’ll need to assess the cut on her hand too that’s bleeding through her shirt she wrapped around it.

I did not want to deal with this shit when I got home.

I wanted to drill her for more answers, not play fucking hero.

But, just looking at her blue lips has me feeling like a goddamn pussy because I’m worried she went and got herself hypothermia. Regardless of what Hansel thinks, I’m definitely whipping her ass for this.

The walk back to the house is a treacherous one with all the snow covered fallen branches. It’s no wonder she hurt herself. If she’d walked down the road like a normal person, she wouldn’t be in this predicament. I would’ve seen her ass and could have just grabbed her.

Filter was right.

I’ve been too soft on her. I’ve just let her be Stormy rather than a captive traitor like she truly is. That shit changes now. Clearly, I can’t trust her at all.

I make my way back inside, hating that we’re tracking mud into the house. When her ass heals, she’s going to clean it up too because this is all her fault. I’m fuming again by the time I reach the guest room. But, when I lay her down on top of the covers, her wrecked state has my chest squeezing again.

Her boots are soaked and caked with mud, so I rip them off along with her socks first. I manage to get her jeans unfastened and pulled over her hips before she wakes in a panic. She kicks out at me, terror wild in her blue eyes. I grab her foot to keep from getting my balls smashed and she howls in pain. Relaxing my hold, I take in the bruising, swollen flesh.

“I have to get these wet clothes off of you and get you cleaned up,” I growl as I set her foot back down. “Kick at me again and I’ll leave your ass in here to die.”

A sob shudders through her, but she doesn’t fight me anymore. I’m able to remove her wet jeans and then her hoodie without any resistance. Once she’s in nothing but her bra and panties, I drag her blanket over her body.

“I’ll be right back,” I grunt out before stalking out of her room on a hunt for my first aid kit.

After unlocking my bedroom, I locate my kit in the bathroom closet and wet a washcloth with hot water. I snag a few more towels and head back to her room. She’s asleep again by the timeI return, which suits me just fine. I unwrap her hand first to assess the damage.

She fucked herself up good.

With a heavy sigh, I set to cleaning the open wound with alcohol that makes her scream out in pain. We struggle a bit, but I manage to subdue her enough to get it clean enough I can suture it up. Having a boy who loved the outdoors and didn’t listen to a damn word his parents said, I did my fair share of stitching cuts up. Stormy remains still as I sew her flesh closed and wrap her up with new gauze. I work on making a compression wrap for her ankle to keep the swelling at bay. Once her injuries are seen to, I clean her up with the washcloth as best as I can before tucking her tight inside the blankets.

“Rest until I get some soup made,” I instruct.

I put away my mess and then set to making her some chicken broth. The dogs, still muddy and whiney from the day’s activities, follow me around with their tongues hanging out like I might slip them their own bowl of soup. I toss them a few treats and take the soup back to Stormy.

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