Chapter 6 · A Voice on the Black Channel

Ivy's hand shook as she peeled back Cole's jacket. Blood soaked through the fabric, dark and sticky. She'd already stripped the medical tape from her pack and laid it on the concrete floor beside them. The warehouse smelled like rust and old oil. Outside, somewhere past the corrugated walls, footsteps echoed and faded.

"Stop moving," she muttered.

Cole didn't answer. His breathing was shallow, uneven. She pressed gauze against the gash along his ribs and he hissed through his teeth.

"Yeah, well, you're the one who threw yourself in front of a jeep."

"Wasn't a jeep."

"Whatever it was."

She worked fast, fingers steady even though her pulse wasn't. The wound wasn't deep, but it was long. Clean slice, probably a blade. She threaded the needle and started stitching. Cole didn't flinch. He just stared at the ceiling, jaw tight.

"You do this a lot?" she asked.

"More than I should."

Ivy tied off the first stitch. "That's not an answer."

"It's the only one I've got."

She pulled the thread tight. He didn't make a sound. She hated that. Hated how calm he was, like pain was just another thing that happened to him. Like he'd done this before.