“P-Put me… down.” It was so hard to remember why she was supposed to run from him. His infernal heat penetrated her flesh through his black leather coat, soothing her aching muscles and pulling her into a cocoon of safety.

“No.” He shifted her in his arms, eyes roaming her damaged body. “Did they cut you deep?”

“I don’t… I don’t think so,” she croaked, though it was hard to feel the extent of her injuries through the involuntary lust pulsing in her veins.

He didn’t say anything further. He simply carried her out into the night.

As soon as they were clear of the building, he adjusted her position again so he could free one hand to grab his phone. There was a sequence of digital tones as he dialed a number, and then his gruff voice resonated in his chest and in the air above her.

“Thomren, I need you to get Pete and his crew to come to the Spearhead Quarter down by the warehouses. I need a clean-up. They'll be able to find it by the scent. But before they get here, I need you to sort out a car. I'll meet you by 127th and Pearson. Got it?”

The person on the other end must have answered in the affirmative, because the demon hung up without another word, quickly stuffing the phone back into his pocket before he wrapped his arm securely around her again.

“Where are you taking me?” she croaked.

“To my home, Breeder,” he said, not sparing her a look as he strode through the empty back streets, eyes scouting for more enemies in the shadows.

His home.

He had saved her from death, but in the end, her fate would be exactly what she had sacrificed everything to escape.

Dread and sorrow warred with the excited twinge in her abdomen at the thought of surrendering to this powerful male. It was too much. Everything she’d been through, the constant running, the torture, the humiliation—it swelled up in her throat and came out in loud, ugly sobs.

The demon jerked, his face whipping toward her.

“Shh, little one.” His voice pitched in startled concern and he pulled her closer to his heated body. A moment later one of his hands, the palm of it the size of her face, curved around her cheek in a surprisingly soft caress. “Don't be scared. Shh, it's all right. Come, look at me.”

Gently he tipped her head up—and up—until she finally saw his face. His eyes were still black, but somewhere behind her grief she realized his irises were naturally that color.

He looked at her as he walked, supporting her body mostly with the arm not cradling her cheek. Concern colored his now perfectly human features, the absence of anger removing the visual cues of what he was.

“You’re safe,” he soothed, clumsily stroking her cheek. “No one will hurt you again, I swear it.”