“Move it, Sleeping Beauty. I ain’t got all day.”
With careful movements, Rafe got out of bed. He seemed stable, just cold. Very cold. He was shaking as he staggered toward the door, his vision blurring in and out.
The cop’s eyes narrowed. “You sick or something?”
“No, I’m fine.” God forbid they made him wait for a doctor to check him out. “Just a little hung over.”
“Well, sleep it off somewhere else.” He unlocked the cell door, took Rafe by the elbow, and retraced the route to the processing area.
Rafe had to wait in line to sign for his belongings and then to change into his street clothes. The whole time, his pulse was pounding, and his face was sheened with cold, clammy sweat. What if another alpha cop smelled him? What if Grant showed up? What if his vision, which was iffy, shut down so he couldn’t walk out of the place on his own?