Marc’s phone clicked shut, and he took my free hand in his, still putting pressure on my abdomen. “You’re gonna be fine,” he said. “Your dad’s sending help.” Then, so low I could barely hear him, “I should never have let you go.”

Eight

I’m not sure how long it took for help to arrive, but it felt like forever.

While we waited, Jace kept his body between me and the unconscious stray, just in case, and Marc applied pressure to my wounds. He didn’t actually look at them, and even in my pain-filled fog, I understood that he was too scared to. He could apply common-sense first aid to slow the bleeding, but looking at the damage might tell him more than he wanted to know. More than I wanted to know, too.

We heard our backup long before we saw them, and knew from the racket that most of those sent were in human form. Since speed was the issue, they wasted no time on stealth, instead crashing though the woods like a bear on fire, pounding feet, breaking branches, and crunching leaves. Jace roared to help them find us; there was little else he could do to help me in cat form.

To my complete surprise, and more than a little relief, my father was the first man to burst through the brush. He still wore the suit he’d donned that morning, including shiny dress shoes that should never have seen action in the woods. They were now ruined by mud and scratches from exposed roots.

He stopped as soon as he spotted me, one thick hand holding back a branch he’d shoved aside. Alarm flickered across his face, then was gone, but I was surprised to have seen it at all. My brothers had been wounded dozens of times, and my father had always taken charge with calm professionalism. Yet for me, he’d shown fear.

Did my stomach look that bad?

No! It was only a few puncture wounds, and surely he couldn’t see the details without more light. My father was just upset because I was his baby—his only daughter—whom he’d never seen sliced open. Would this scare him into removing me from the field? Putting me on permanent desk duty?

Hell, no. I wouldn’t let that happen.

I grinned through the pain at my father, assuring him I was okay, and he smiled back in relief and knelt next to Marc in the crowded clearing, taking my right hand in his. He stroked my hair back from my damp cheeks, much as Marc had done, but didn’t say a word. I didn’t know what to say, either. When he found out it was my idea to play bait, his concern would likely be eclipsed by anger, and even in the grip of abdominal agony, I knew the ensuing argument would not be pleasant.