Dark suspicion fills her haughty features. Her chin lifts and her thin cheeks make her cheekbones seem higher than is natural. I’d bet she hasn’t had a decent meal in a while. Not many people have, lately. Though women aren’t often found these days either, and certainly not alone, and yet here she is.
Trouble in a shapeless sack of an outfit.
As I move closer, her attention fastens on me, evaluating the new threat. Those gray-blue eyes hit me like a punch to the gut.
Piercing, intelligent—in seconds that gaze has me stripped bare and measured from the toes up. Her eyes would be almost too light for her face, if not for the striking darker blue ring around her irises and the thick, sooty lashes that frame them. They’re so long they brush her glasses as she blinks.
I set my feet and quirk a brow, meeting her stare and giving her the same once-over, strangely unsettled. My skin feels hot and tight in the face of her frightened pride.
Her thick, dark hair is secured in a tight bun, though sweaty, curly strands fly about her jaw, pulled from their confines. She has a regal face, but full, sensuous lips belie her stern expression. Those lips are trembling now, though she’s trying to press them together.
And that’s a problem.
Her nervousness excites me—it pricks my instincts hard—and a raw, unexpected picture of those lips wrapped slickly around my cock slides into my mind.
Fuck. We don’t have time for this. Damn her for being nervous.
Damn me for wanting to taste her fear.
I drag my eyes to the man next to her. “Beau, forget it. Let’s go.”
My friend snorts, not even looking back at me. This time I can’t suppress a scowl. The others follow me pretty much without question—even Jasper, no matter what he pretends—but it’s hard to order someone around who’s pulled shrapnel out of your ass.
The girl’s attention goes back to Beau as he gently grasps her ankle. Her bulky pants have been torn and mended so many times the length is uneven around her calves.
“Don’t,” she whispers.
My jaw clenches. Her voice is deeper than I was expecting, rich and husky as hell. A voice made for sex.
Beau tenses as well.
No. We definitely do not have time for this.
“Beaumont,” I warn.
He glances back at me with a dry look.
“Dominic,” he mimics.
“It’s not happening.”
“Just gonna get her fixed up is all.” Beau doesn’t shift from his easy crouch, though his thumb starts stroking gentle circles on the girl’s tense calf.
I’m going to kick my friend’s Southern ass from here to home if he doesn’t move.
Slowly, Beau’s other hand moves to the heavy pack at his side and rummages about, and he pulls out a small brown bottle, then turns it so she can see the label. She tracks every move.
“Iodine, darlin’。 Nothing to hurt you.” He pauses. “Well, she might sting like a bitch, but I’m guessing you’ve faced worse.”
His voice is low and soothing as he unwraps the filthy cloth around her foot. She flinches, but he doesn’t slow. “Come on, now.
Infection is worse than I’ll ever be, I promise you that.”
She doesn’t relax but doesn’t stop him either. After wetting the area, he wipes away the grime around the wound with a clean cloth and then soaks a fresh one.
Beau has always been good with women.
And horses.
And children.
His steady manner puts people at ease. Unlike me, who puts people on edge. Heather was the only one who never backed down from me—she threw back every bit of temper I had with an impressive one of her own.
Unexpected pain slices into me and I scowl. The fuck? I haven’t thought about Heather in months.
My expression frightens our little field mouse again, and she pulls back like she’s planning on melting into the tree. This one is no wildcat, that’s for damn sure.
Beau shoots me a dirty look. “Stop scaring my patient.”
The words are light, but they carry an edge that tells me Beau is liking the idea of this patient far too much. Also, funny how his accent just smooths out to a barely perceptible drawl when he’s sniping at me. The petty part of me wants to point it out to the mouse.
I flip him off, then pause as my gaze catches on the girl again.
Oh, great. Real nice.
“How did you hurt your arm?” I snap. The wound is fresh, still leaking blood.
The woman flinches, then instinctively looks to Beau for help. Beau frowns at me, then hesitates and studies her bloody arm himself. Worry and anger darken my friend’s smooth, tanned face.
“Who shot at you, darlin’？” he asks gently.
She hesitates, wound tight. Then she takes a deep, shuddering breath and closes her eyes.
“I need to go. I have to go.” Her voice is tentative, like she doesn’t use it often. She looks at Beau, studiously avoiding my livid gaze. “You should go too. It’s . . . not safe here.”
“Oh, sweetheart, it’s not safe anywhere. Didn’t you get the memo?” Lucky saunters over from the river, giving me a wide-eyed ‘don’t get mad, I’m done’ look.
His cheek dimples as he smiles at her, clear even under his short beard. Women always love Lucky’s dimples.
Dick.
“Don’t you worry your pretty head, though. We’ll take care of you now. I’m Lucky—and I guess you are too, since you found us.”
Lucky seems oblivious to her unimpressed grimace as he eyes her approvingly.
No, enough.
“Shut up, Lucien.” His nose crinkles at the use of his full name, and he tosses me a wounded look that I ignore. “We’re not taking her anywhere. We’re sticking to the plan. Beau, finish up; we’re out.”
Beau opens his mouth to protest when a punishing crack of gunfire thunders through the forest. And suddenly her fear clicks.
Shit. They’re tracking her.
The woman’s gaze swings to mine, those unusual eyes filled with dread, and I’m caught. Accused. Her naked fear tugs at all my protective instincts—but this isn’t the old world, and I’m not putting my men at risk for a stranger. We don’t do that anymore.
Beau stands up. I’m only an inch taller, but I use it to glare down on him.
He shakes his head, not biting. “Cool it. How far away?”
It only takes me a moment of thought. “Five minutes, maybe less.” I set my jaw and meet my friend’s eyes. “Dump her and let’s go.”
“Fucking Jesus, Dom,” Lucky mutters, but my gaze doesn’t leave Beau.
Beau wavers. A muscle in his jaw ticks. Then he scrubs a hand over his short brown hair and looks back at me. His eyes are gentle with understanding. “Can’t do it, my friend. Won’t do it. We need her.”
Not. Fucking. This. Again.
Before I can speak, my friend of over fifteen years says, “Get on if you have to. I get it, I do. But the rest of us just don’t see it the same. We’ve been waiting for this.”
Another shot sounds.
It’s close.
Chapter 3
Eden
SURVIVAL TIP #12
Laugh lines can be deceptive.
Sure, maybe this person is good humored and trustworthy.
But maybe they laugh while they dismember corpses.
Exercise caution.