“But?” he repeats softly, coaxing me to open up.
I chew my lip. “I mean, I know accusations are serious. And I don’t know for sure. I need to preface things by saying that. But I had some weird encounters with a few people here last night.”
He nods, concerned. “Tell me about them.”
I hesitate, but he smiles and nods encouragingly. This inherent need to please him rises, and words spill from my lips. I tell him about the cowboy and his friend by the coffee shop, and then explain the strange guys at the diner. I feel like a complete and utter dumbass as I speak, because everything I tell him centers around people staring at me or accidentally scaring me and apologizing for it.
I sound like a second grader who’s tattling on her classmates because they looked at her too long.
For a split second, I consider retracting all my statements, ducking my head, and leaving the room. I mean, I don’t have proof of my head injuries, the bite—any of it. It’s all gone, along with my purse. But…I woke up in a strange house with two men. And everything I saw was so vivid that even if I was drugged, I honestly believe some of it was real.
Studying the sheriff as I speak, I look for any indication that he’s judging me. Or humoring me. Or worse, that he’s a secret member of this weird cult I swear I’ve stumbled into. A cult he should know about if he’s good at his job.
Maybe that’s unfair of me. But I really don’t see how a bunch of cloak-wearing crazies are running naked through the woods nearby without someone noticing. But what do I know?
I look around his office, observing the gray-blue walls, the long navy sofa off to the right, and the large oak desk that the sheriff sits behind. There’s a huge map that takes up the wall behind me and a pretty black-and-white picture of the mountains hanging to my left. I don’t spy a red cloak or anything red in general. That doesn’t necessarily mean anything, but it does help me relax a little anyway.
“I know you didn’t see who attacked you, but what about your other senses? Any sounds or smells that stood out to you? Did it feel like it was one person, or did you get the sense there were more?”
Focusing my thoughts, I search for answers in my fragmented memories. I try to sift through everything, looking for flashes of clothing or any other little details that might help, but distress and fear have corroded everything. My pain and panic are all that surge to the forefront. I attempt to push, to demand that my brain give me more, but a spiking ache drives through my scalp like a pickax.
Hissing, I grab my head. Sheriff Arcan shoots up from his chair, and the next thing I know, he’s crouched in front of me, his strong hands circling my wrists.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him.
“It’s okay. Just breathe.”
I pull in a deep breath of his crisp, musky smell. Shit. Someone should weave his cologne into blankets and sell them. I’d wrap myself up in one like a Snuggie and never take it off.
I wince as another flash of pain travels through my skull like a Plinko chip bouncing unpredictably from peg to peg. “I think something is wrong with me,” I admit, a moan sneaking out as I rub my temples to try and keep the ache in my head at bay. But my head’s inflating, puffing, bloating, and it feels like it’s going to pop.
Fuck, it hurts!
The next thing I know, I’m being scooped out of my chair and held tight to the sheriff’s chest. A sliver of shock invades the pain because, with my height, men don’t just pick me up like I weigh nothing. But that’s literally what Ellery does. Worry, and I think a flash of fear, fills his eyes, and he brushes a strand of my dark hair from my face. I resist the urge to lean into those strong fingers as he carries me over to the couch and sits down with me on his lap.
Before I can ask what the hell he’s doing, his head turns and he’s shouting toward the door, “Fife! Get in here!”
Less than a second later, as if he was waiting next to the door to be summoned, Fife pops his head in. His eyes go round when he turns to see us, almost as if he’s delighted, before it quickly dims to concern.
But Sheriff Arcan’s shout to his deputy is frantic. “Call the healer. Call my father. Call Gannon and tell him to come now. I think she might be Fading.”
8
NOAH
If someone else’s declaration that you’re dying doesn’t shoot some fucking adrenaline through your system, I don’t know what will. I’m aware that I currently look like something a raccoon would fish out of the garbage, but I must look way worse than I thought for the sheriff to think I’m on death’s door.
He better never catch me on day two of my period if a headache freaks him out this much.
Fading?
Something about that word niggles at the back of my mind, but it’s quickly buried beneath the throbbing in my head. The sheriff adjusts me on his lap, so the arm of the couch isn’t digging into my back, and then lifts his hand to my forehead.
I bat it away like I would a bug.
“What are you doing?” I ask, the ache in my head dulling slightly as I straighten on his lap.
“Checking for a fever,” he answers before he lifts his hand to my forehead a second time.
I slap it away again and meet his frustrated and slightly panicked look with a glare. “Do you mind?” I demand, pushing at his shoulder so he’ll let me go. “You can’t just lug people around like they’re dolls because your panic button has a hair trigger.”
My ire is undermined by a wince, and this time, when the sheriff cups my cheek, I’m too focused on the pain to put him in his place. Under other circumstances, I might be into this whole caveman shit. The sheriff is a tall guy and I feel dwarfed by his presence in a holy crap, he’s big enough to pin me to a wall and fuck me kind of way. But he thinks I’m dying, so this is weird.
“Can you tell me what’s happening? Is it just your head, or are you hurting anywhere else?” he asks in that calm, professional tone that first responders have.
Too bad professional flew right out the window the moment he scooped me up like I was ice cream and he was the cone. I move out of his arms.
He seems to resist for a second and then lets me slide off his lap and land on the couch beside him. Of course, the move only makes the pounding in my skull worse, and I grimace.
“It’s just my head. Can I just get some aspirin please?” I half whimper.
“That won’t help,” he states, his forehead creased with concern as he looks down at me.
Both my hands come up to press against my forehead. I brace my elbows on my knees and curl down, closing my eyes. “How do you know? Is this a side effect from being drugged?” I ask. Drugging is the most logical explanation, considering I don’t have any injuries, none I can see anyway.
“Something like that.”
His words and tone give me pause, but I can’t see past the pressure in my head to figure out why. I squeeze my eyes and press my palms deeper into my temples to try to find some relief.
“Help will be here soon,” he assures me before clearing his throat. “I…um…I know some pressure points in your neck and near your temples that might help. Would you like me to…？” He trails off, letting me decide instead of swooping in and grabbing me like earlier.