Chapter 7
Nora's POV
"Ben..." My voice came out strained. "You okay?"
"I... I think so..." Benjamin's voice sounded weak. "Nora, what about you?"
I tried to move my right arm. Pain shot through me, sharp and hot. Looking down, I saw a wound on my forearm, blood staining my white shirt.
Damn... must've been the glass...
I tried to release the seatbelt, but the buckle was jammed. The smell of gasoline began seeping into the car—a dangerous sign. If the engine caught fire...
"Help!" I pounded the window with my left hand. "Someone help us!"
Footsteps approached.
"Don't move!" A deep male voice came from outside, carrying a reassuring steadiness.
The door was wrenched open—twisted metal screeching. A long, powerful hand reached in, first checking my injuries, then supporting my body with one arm while the other hand quickly tore apart the jammed seatbelt buckle.
"Grab hold of me." The voice said.
I looked up, and through my blurred vision I saw a familiar face—sharp features, silver-grey eyes, and that unmistakable Alpha presence.
It's him...
Julian crouched by the door, one hand supporting my back, the other cradling my neck as he carefully lifted me out of the overturned car.
I leaned against him.
"You..." I tried to speak, but the pain from the wound made it impossible.
"Don't talk." Julian's voice was quiet but commanding. "Let's deal with the injury first."
He gently set me down on the grass by the roadside. Benjamin was also rescued by another man.
Julian ran to his car and retrieved a first aid kit. He crouched beside me, using disinfectant cotton to clean the wound on my right arm.
"This'll sting a bit." His voice was soft, like soothing a frightened animal.
I bit my lip, watching his focused profile. His fingers were strong yet surprisingly gentle—cleaning the wound, applying iodine, wrapping the bandage, each step precise and efficient.
"How's Benjamin?" I asked.
"His consciousness is a bit fuzzy." Julian said. "Probably a minor concussion."
Julian stepped back, surveying the crash scene with clinical efficiency. Benjamin was being helped to his feet by another man—tall, wearing wire-rimmed glasses and a federal employee's standard suit. His movements carried a precision that suggested extensive experience handling emergencies.
Behind them, I could see another figure on the phone, barking orders in clipped tones. "Black pickup... partial plate... yes, hit-and-run, heading north. I want highway patrol on it now." His voice carried the weight of someone accustomed to immediate obedience.
They're already tracking the hit-and-run driver. Part of me felt relieved that someone was handling it, that I didn't have to worry about filing reports or chasing down insurance information while bleeding on the highway.
"I'll take you to the hospital," Julian said, his tone calm but brooking no argument. "My car is just ahead."
I opened my mouth to refuse, but the words stuck in my throat. The world tilted. My arm throbbed where the glass had torn through skin, and I could feel warm blood seeping through the bandage Julian had just applied.
"I appreciate the offer, but we can wait for an ambulance," I managed, though my voice came out weaker than intended. "You've already done so much."
Julian's silver-gray eyes fixed on me with an intensity that made me catch my breath. "The longer you wait, the worse it gets. You need stitches, and your friend needs his head checked."
I glanced at Benjamin, swaying slightly on his feet, looking like he might throw up or pass out—or both. The rational part of my brain kicked in. He's right. We need medical attention now, not however many minutes it takes for an ambulance to arrive.
"Okay," I heard myself say. "Thank you."
Julian nodded. Then he called out to the man supporting Benjamin. "Ethan, get him in the car first."
He helped Benjamin toward a black Lincoln parked about fifty yards away on the shoulder.
I tried to follow, but my legs wouldn't cooperate. The adrenaline that had been holding me together was wearing off fast, leaving behind bone-deep exhaustion that made every step feel like wading through cement.
Julian seemed to sense my struggle. He lifted me up again, and when we reached the car, he settled me steadily into the back seat.
Julian closed the door, then circled to the passenger side. The engine rumbled low, and we pulled back onto the road.
The silence in the car was suffocating. Ethan focused intently on the road. Benjamin sat with his eyes closed, one hand pressed to his forehead. And Julian...
Julian sat perfectly still in the front seat, his profile sharp in the winter light filtering through the windshield. He pulled out a tablet, browsing through something—reports, maybe, or emails.
Stop staring, you idiot.
I looked away, focusing instead on the snow beginning to fall outside. Soft flakes drifted down, melting instantly on the warm pavement.
A wave of drowsiness came over me.
"Stay awake. Keep talking to me." Julian's voice broke the silence, rousing me. "Are you a local?"
I turned toward the front seat. He was still looking at his tablet, but I could feel his attention had shifted to me. "Not originally," I said. "I lived in Silverton for a few years before, but I'm not from here. This time I'm traveling from the Blackwood District to take up a post at DSW headquarters."
"Does Silverton get this much snow every year?" He glanced out the window, his expression neutral but his tone almost... conversational.
"Yes," I admitted. "The past two years have been heavier than usual. Climate change, probably." I hesitated, then added, "Is this your first time in this area?"
"Yes." He turned his head slightly, not quite looking back at me but enough for me to see his profile. "First time."
"Then welcome to Silverton," I said, managing a small smile.
"How old are you?"
I paused, caught off guard by the question. "Twenty-four."
Julian didn't respond, simply turned his gaze back to the window, watching the snowflakes drift down against the gray-white sky. "The age for yearning freedom," he said quietly, his voice carrying an emotion I couldn't quite read—like nostalgia, or perhaps regret.
I turned my head to study the man in the front seat. He looked to be in his early thirties, but his eyes carried a maturity and weight beyond his years, as if he bore something heavy. His profile in the backlight was especially cold and solitary, his jawline sharp, yet when he spoke those words, there was an indescribable softness.
What is he reminiscing about? A subtle curiosity stirred in me.
His eyes found mine in the rearview mirror. They held for a beat too long, and I felt heat crawl up my neck. Then he looked away, and the moment passed.
Ten minutes of silence later, my phone buzzed. I glanced at the screen: unknown number.