Chapter 2

Nora

I knew exactly what Victor would do if he found a strange man in his house.

I knew, and I dragged the man inside anyway.

The man was dying. He didn’t carry the foul, bitter stench of a rogue, which meant he belonged to a pack. Maybe he had come here looking for help. Maybe he had nowhere else to go.

I gave myself plenty of reasons. Good reasons. Logical reasons.

But the truth was, I couldn’t pretend I hadn’t seen him bleed. I didn’t want to become that numb. I didn’t want to become a murderer.

He was heavier than he looked. I got his arm across my shoulders and hauled him up the back hill one slow step at a time, my work shoes sliding on the wet leaves. The blood on his shirt soaked through to mine. By the time we reached the door, my arms were burning and my heart was slamming against my ribs.

My mother’s voice followed me the whole way.

Be kind, Nora. Be good. Promise me.

She had made me repeat it so many times that leaving him there felt like betraying her.

Besides, Victor wouldn't be home until tomorrow.

That would have to be enough.

The house was dark and silent. I carried him through the kitchen and down the hall to my room, holding my breath at every creak in the floor, praying it wouldn't wake Lily.

My room wasn't really mine. The bed in the corner belonged to my sister. It was small and soft, the one good thing in this house. I slept on the narrow couch by the window, faded with age and tattered in places from Victor’s rampages. There was only one yellowed pillow, and a thin blanket with holes in it.

That was where I laid him down.

He didn't stir. His breathing came shallow and uneven, and now that I had light, I could see how bad it was. And it was bad. But I had patched myself up enough times to know my way around an injury.

I cut his shirt open with the kitchen scissors and made myself look. One rib on his left side sat wrong beneath the skin, likely fractured. A deep bruise spread low across his stomach, dark and ugly, the kind that came from a hard, flat blow. If I was unlucky, he was bleeding somewhere inside, somewhere I couldn't reach.

It should have scared me. It didn't. I'd worn my own versions of too many wounds.

I gathered what I had: clean rags, the half-bottle of antiseptic I kept hidden behind the dish soap, a needle and thread in case it came to that.

Then I cleaned the cuts, bound his rib with a strip torn from an old sheet, and pressed a cold cloth to the bruise while I watched his face for any change.

I let myself look at his face only once.

Even unconscious, he had the kind of face that made me pause for half a second.

His hands lay open at his sides, big and scarred across the knuckles, but the nails were clean and neatly trimmed. Somebody, somewhere, had taught him to take care of himself. That was more than anyone had ever done for the men in this house.

I pulled my hand back like I'd touched the stove.

Foolish. He was a bleeding stranger on my couch, and I had a sister to protect. I kept my eyes on my work instead.

"Nora?"

Lily's voice came small from the doorway. She'd crawled out of bed, her hair a wild tangle, one sock on and one sock gone.

"Who's that man?"

"Shh." I crossed the room and steered her gently back toward her bed. "He's hurt. I'm helping him. That's all."

"Is he gonna live here?"

"No, sweetheart. Just tonight."

She frowned, turning the idea over the way she turned over everything. "Did Victor hurt him too?"

The question landed somewhere soft and sore. "No," I said. "Go to sleep. I'll be right here. I won't move an inch."

I sat on the edge of her bed and held her hand until her breathing went slow and deep. Only then did I go back to work.

By the time the rib was bound and the bleeding had slowed and I'd scrubbed the floor clean of every red drop, the window had gone from black to the dull gray of almost-morning.

I lay down on the floor beside the couch. Two hours. I could spare two hours and not a minute more. I couldn't forget Lily's breakfast.

I closed my eyes. For once, I slept.

…

I woke stiff and gritty-eyed, still in yesterday's diner clothes, the gray shirt stiff with old sweat and a brown smear of his blood at the shoulder.

The man was still asleep, his chest rising in a steady rhythm now. Better than before. I dressed Lily in her clean shirt, smoothed down her hair, and carried her to the kitchen.

I made three plates of pancakes. Two for Lily and me. One for him, which I left on the table for when he woke.

They came out a little uneven, the way they always did on the old stove. Lily never complained, and I'd long since stopped caring how anything looked, as long as it filled us up.

But he was still a stranger, and I didn't know if he'd wake frightened, angry, or something worse. I would not let my sister be the first thing he saw.

I crouched to her level. "Stay out here," I said. "Don't come into my room until I tell you it's safe. Promise me."

"Promise." She swung her feet under the chair.

I went back down the hall, forcing my hands steady before I pushed the door open.

I never saw him move.

One second I was through the doorway. The next, a hand had closed around my arm and spun me, and my back hit the wall hard enough to knock the breath out of me.

"Who are you?"

His voice was low and rough with sleep. His eyes were open now, pale and icy blue, fixed on me without a trace of warmth. His hand slid up to my throat and rested there, light as a question.

But I understood the answer it was waiting for. One wrong word, and those fingers could close.

I didn't scream. Screaming had never once helped me.

The man stared at me, waiting for the response I couldn’t give. Blue eyes searched my face. Before anything else could happen, the door banged open behind us.

"Let go of Nora!"

Lily flew across the room and started beating her small fists against his leg, again and again, with everything she had.