Chapter 16: What Dalton Held Back

Dalton's POV

"Not tonight," I said to Gilbert.

He stood in the floodlight with his hands open.

For the first time I could see what he looked like with nothing in front of him.

He looked like a man who had lost.

I felt no pity.

"Please," he said. "Five minutes. She doesn't have to speak."

"She's bleeding on my coat."

"Della..."

"Tomorrow," Della said.

Her voice was thin, but it carried.

"Tomorrow, Gilbert. Go home."

He went.

I carried her to the truck before anyone could stop me, and no one tried.

The lodge was three hours north.

She slept for part of the drive with her head against my arm.

I drove with one hand and kept the other on her wrist, counting her pulse.

The healer was waiting on the porch with a lantern when we pulled in.

She looked at the long cuts down Della's ribs and said, "Put her on the table."

She stitched her without a drug, because wolves don't take them.

Della held my hand and swore at me in a whisper for the entire twenty minutes.

I didn't mind.

When the healer left, I carried her to my bed, the only one in the house warm enough.

I put her down on her good side.

She caught my sleeve.

"Stay," she said.

"I'll be in the chair."

"Dalton."

"You're hurt. You've had a day."

"I'm asking."

I sat down on the edge of the mattress with my boots still on.

She turned her face to look at me, and her grey-green eyes were clear in the lamplight.

"You didn't move," she said. "I watched you. I thought you'd come in."

"I wanted to."

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