If Ranger had returned to the camp, he could dispatch Ronan and Petra. At the very least, Ranger could keep the couple occupied while Bane tended to Nola.

Hoping to convince Ronan and Petra that he’d gone through it, he flung blood onto the lavender stalks. Has to work, has to work. Then, he hid nearby. He placed Nola on the ground as gently as possible, careful not to jostle the metal that protruded from her shoulder, and palmed two daggers. She was wide-awake, her features pinched, her skin more pallid than before, little wheezes leaving her with every labored exhalation.

Voice low but rough, he said, “Be as quiet as you can, dove.” The portal would remain open for sixty—fifty—seconds.

Impatience gnawed on his nerves as he waited for Ronan and Petra to show. Forty...thirty.

Twenty.

Nola didn’t reply or move an inch. Fear and impatience sharpened into all-consuming panic. “Just a little longer, dove,” he whispered, feeling like he’d just swallowed a mouthful of rusty nails. “Hold on for me.”

Fifteen. Fourteen. Thirteen.

The beast continued ramming into his skull, agitated beyond measure, and Bane didn’t know if his companion wanted to murder Ronan and Petra extra bad, or strike at Nola while he had the chance. Or both.

She’s off-limits, now and always.

Ten. Nine.

At last, the couple entered his line of sight. They followed the trail of blood, as hoped.

Seven. Six.

Would they make it through in time?

Yes! With only two seconds to spare, the fools darted through the portal. The doorway closed.

Knowing they could return at any moment, Bane shut down all emotion and straddled Nola’s waist. A sliver of moonlight bathed her precious face, allowing him to watch her expression as he wrapped a hand around the pipe. With the other hand, he wadded up a brand-new T-shirt.

Her irises glazed with anguish. “I—I know what you’re planning, and I d-don’t want you to do it.”

Even in the face of excruciating pain, she refused to make a demand. No wonder he cared for this amazing woman. She was a rare and wondrous unicorn. And I’m about to make her bleed.

“I’m so sorry, dove, but you cannot begin to heal until the pipe is removed.”

“Please, just take me to a hospital. They’ll knock me out and—”

With a fierce yank, he removed the pipe and pressed the wadded-up shirt against the gaping wound left behind. As she bowed her back and screamed into the night, birds took flight. At least the material absorbed spurts of arterial blood.

Shakes plagued Bane, his chest clenching. “I’m sorry, dove, but I must do more.”

“What do you mean—no,” she cried when the answer crystalized. “Please, no. I’m begging you. Won’t this start the Blood Rite?”

Clench, clench. “I’ll be careful.”

“Bane—”