T he second shot has me back on my feet, iodine and pretty doctors be darned. The ground is especially harsh against my now-bare wound. The three men tower beside me, still arguing among themselves. The large man’s dark eyebrows are slanted in anger over his caramel eyes. Dom. His short military cut is longer on top, and his broad shoulders flex as he gestures.
While I’m not sure what I’ve done to warrant the frustration in his eyes, I do agree with him on one point: it’s time to go.
I gingerly put weight on my leg, scanning the clearing for the best exit or a place to hide. At this point, I’m wondering if jumping in the river and praying would be my best option. I grit my teeth and turn south, not quite willing to risk the rapid, icy water—not yet—but I’ll need to be quick to make up the time I’ve lost.
I have to force my trembling legs to action; they beg me to stay seated.
“Woah, darlin’， slow down.” Beau clasps my uninjured arm. His hand wraps around my whole bicep.
The hard planes of his face are cleanly attractive, his jaw squared. Light laugh lines branch from the corners of his hazel eyes, somehow relaxing me, just a little. How long has it been since I laughed? How often does this man do it for it to mark his face?
“I have to go,” I repeat, more insistent this time.
I can hear them clearly now; the cracks of branches and their shouts are way too close. But . . . he’s been kind to me. Darn it, why aren’t they running too? Guilt and indecision make me pause again, even as I curse myself. This isn’t how I keep myself alive. Dump them and go—cold as it is, I can’t help thinking Dom is right about the sentiment.
“There are too many of them.” I’m dangerously close to begging. “Just run. Go.”
Beau considers me. “How many?”
I tug, trying to pull my arm away, but he holds fast.
“Tell me how many, darlin’。”
The quiet command in his voice has me impatiently answering before I can think. “Fifteen? Twenty? I don’t know.”
The long-haired one with the wicked smile—Lucky? Lucien?—groans. “Twenty? Sweetheart, there are a lot of words I want to hear come out of that mouth, but that’s not one of them.”
I shoot him a level look, not enjoying his flippancy. He winks at me.
Another shot echoes through the forest.
“Too late to run now,” Beau says, sounding unfazed. “Dom?”
“There was a ledge on our way down the mountain, two klicks northwest.” Dom casts a quick, irritated look at me. “Take her, then. But only until this is sorted. Then we’ll talk.”
Before I’ve puzzled that out, I’m being swung bridal style into Beau’s arms. I let out an embarrassing yelp. “What are you doing? Put me down!”
“Hush.” His slight smile gentles the word. “You can’t run; let us help.”
Alarm shoots through me, and I do struggle then. “You can’t fight them.”
All of my efforts barely seem to register. He simply tightens his arms, holding me against his hard chest.
“They’ll track us. You can’t.”
Lucky laughs. “Just wait and see, beautiful. Didn’t anyone ever tell you to have some faith in people?”
My mouth tightens. I’ve always been a lot of things—smart, polite, kind—but never beautiful. And faith? If people were as good as he says, then I wouldn’t have needed to run until my feet bled.
The men set a quick pace, their long legs easily covering more ground than I could. The catcalls behind us make my stomach turn, but . . . I’m so tired. It’s good to stop running. Maybe this will be the end. These men around me are well armed and seem almost casual, if annoyed, at the prospect of a fight. But I’ve seen my hunters. They’re dangerous, they’re patient, and they aren’t going to give up.
I shift to touch the small knife at my waist. Would I have the courage to end it myself? Better that than to let them have me.
My fingers tremble on the worn hilt.
Beau gives my thigh a reassuring squeeze. After a moment, I rest my head against his chest; he smells clean, like soap and fresh, male sweat. I can afford to wait a bit longer. If it looks like they’ll take me, then I’ll use the knife.
Within a few minutes, we’re fronting a steep cliff face beside the water. There’s a small clearing between the trees and the rocks, but I can’t see anywhere to hide.
“Lucky, trees.”
Lucky gives Dom an exaggerated salute, tosses me a smile, and kicks off his shoes. He tucks them behind a bush at the base of a large tree and begins climbing with easy confidence. Though he’s leaner than the other two, his colorful, tattooed arms ripple with muscle, and he whistles cheerfully as he moves. A long rifle swings from the strap around his neck.
Beau moves toward the cliff. I crane my head up.
Dom is climbing along a nearly invisible path up the cliff face, aiming for a ledge I didn’t notice from front-on. I have a great view of his tight ass as he pulls himself up.
No, bad Eden. He is an ass. You shouldn’t be noticing his.
Wait! Pulls himself up?
I’ve changed my mind. To call it a “path” is laughable.
It’s a rock-climbing route.
“I’m going to need my arms for this one, darlin’，” Beau murmurs.
My heart sinks. There’s no way I’ll be able to get up there, not with my arm numb and useless as it currently is—not to mention my injured foot. Beau sets me down, then calloused fingers tilt my chin up to look at him.
I pull back from the intimate touch. He may have been kind to me, but that doesn’t entitle him to touch me any way he wants.
“Climb on.”
I blink and raise an eyebrow at him.
Amusement dances in his pretty eyes. “Arms around my neck, legs around my waist. Give me the monkey hold.”
My mouth drops open. “You can’t carry me while you climb, Beau.”
Something flashes in his eyes that makes me take a step back.
After a tense moment, he mutters, “I like the way you say my name, darlin’。” I don’t know how to reply to that, but he saves me the trouble. “Now, you should stop telling me what I can’t do, or I might just get offended. Climb on, you’re no weight at all.”
Still, I hesitate.
“You didn’t think I’d leave you behind, did you?”
I shake my head. Not in disagreement, but . . . he doesn’t know me at all. Why should I assume anything of him?
A loud bang echoes through the trees too close to us, and I decide now isn’t the best time for modesty. I slide my hands up around his neck, hissing at the hot stab of pain in my injured bicep, and shift so my other arm holds most of my weight. He bends and lifts me, hands hot under my ass. I wrap my legs around his toned waist, avoiding his eyes as my cheeks heat . We’re close—closer than I’ve been to a man for years. Years before the strikes decimated our world, even.
“Hold on tight, darlin’。” His Southern accent is thick and sweet as honey. “Don’t want you falling off halfway up.”
I nod against his neck and squeeze closer.
Beau scales the path surprisingly fast, despite my awkward weight. When we reach the ledge, he stands long enough for me to drop my legs, but his hands linger on my hips, holding me close to him for a moment too long. I’m unable to miss his interest —it presses insistently against me.