“Don’t wake her!” I hiss.
He shoots me a confused glance, and he takes in my appearance, quickly putting the pieces together. I walk around and grab the little girl from the backseat and follow Oren into his house.
“Why bring her here?” He asks me, rummaging through a closet in search of a blanket.
The kid hasn’t woken up once, and if she wasn’t snoring, I would be concerned she had died on the way here. I lay her on the couch, and Oren places a blanket over her. He nods his head in the kitchen's direction, and I follow.
“Because I didn’t think the same house as Tawny was a safe place for a child,” I retort.
I’m dragging ass.
This night went from zero to one hundred in five seconds, and I’m not happy. My body hurts, I feel disgusting, and I’m exhausted.
Oren flicks on the kitchen light and beelines it to the coffeemaker. I sigh in relief that the shithead knows me so damn well. His hair is down, which is unusual to see. His long black tendrils hang straight past his shoulders, and tattoos decorate his body, only in areas he can hide under his fed suit.
To see Oren at peace in his own home, wearing sweatpants and no shirt, reminds me of our childhood. We would stay up late training together and start again at the break of dawn. At least when I was home.
I wasn’t home a lot, but I was home even less after my mother took the pistol to my face.
“Dr. Delaney is coming to look her over,” I mumble while watching Oren’s back muscles contract as he stirs the cream and sugar in our coffees.
“Probably needs to be checked for whiplash the way you hit those brakes,” he mutters.
Turning on his heel, he struts over to me, a steaming mug in each hand. I greedily take a cup and bask in its warmth as the steam brushes against my face.
“Help yourself to my closet and get a shower. You look like Mother Murder with a child on your hip walking in here wearing all that blood. I’ll watch the kid.”
I narrow my gaze, not appreciating his snarky comment, but he winks over his cup as he takes a long sip.
The fucker.
“You’re lucky I’m tired. You’re talking like you want to be skinned alive today.” I stride off and head toward his bedroom.
After my shower, I fish out a pair of joggers and a black t-shirt from Oren’s dresser and make my way out into his living room. Dr. Delaney has arrived and is looking over Parasite, her stethoscope pressed to the kid’s chest and her lips pursed. The child is still sleeping soundly. Knowing I’ll be no help to Delaney, I set off to find Oren.
My dad, Donovan, and Oren stand in the kitchen, all engrossed in a hushed conversation. When I cross the threshold, my dad’s head snaps up. Oren gives me a shrug, letting me know he didn’t call them here, meaning Delaney must have called my dad after I hung up with her.
Bitch.
Dad’s gaze narrows, his eyes searching my body for any harm before he tears into me. I haven’t spoken to him since telling him I was moving. And here I am, showing up at one of our men’s houses with a random kid.
Dad walks away from the group, signaling me to follow him so we can talk privately. Donovan goes to move, and I pin him with a glare—whatever bullshit Dad and I have to hash out, I don’t need his dumbass comments making shit worse.
Dad leads me into Oren’s home office, and I shut the door behind me. Best to shield some of my yelling from the ears of others. Not that I care if they hear.
“Explain,” Dad says, not needing to add context.
“Killed our narc and his tree-house of coke elves.”
Dad’s eyes narrow into slits, unamused by my joke, but I smile anyway.
“When I was done, I saw the kid standing over the body of a woman I killed, couldn’t leave her there, and now she’s here.”
A tinge of guilt tightens my chest, but I shove it off—I’m over the empathy bus stopping by at random times. I’m not looking for a ride on that trip. Reading the shift in my mood, my dad speaks up as if to comfort me.
As if I’m fucking weak.
“She is in poor condition, Malia,” he says, running a hand over his face. “Malnourished and severely dehydrated, she has several bruises from what Delaney has seen so far.”