“Hello? Faythe?”

“Yeah, it’s me,” I said around my first bite of chicken. I was starving, and chewing on the right side of my mouth was the only concession I was willing to make toward the pain in my cheek. “We have Lance, and we’re about a hundred miles west of Malone’s property.”

The relief in my father’s sigh revealed the truth: he hadn’t expected good news. His footsteps echoed across the floor of the office. “Prospects?”

“Lookin’ good so far, but we’re not out of the woods yet.”

“How’s Lance?”

“Unconscious but breathing. I’m crossing my fingers against brain damage.” We’d need him healthy and coherent to testify before his execution.

“Blood loss?”

“Nope.” I swallowed my mouthful of chicken before elaborating. “Hiking boot to the side of the head. Plus tranquilizers. Malone really shouldn’t leave loaded syringes just lying around.”

“Mmm. Casualties?”

“None,” Marc said from the driver’s seat. And he looked decidedly unhappy with that particular detail.

Springs creaked as my father sank into the rolling chair behind his desk. “You snuck into the heart of Malone’s territory and made it out with one of his enforcers without a single casualty?”

“Not for lack of trying,” Marc mumbled, flicking on his left blinker.

I sipped from my water bottle. “We were lucky.”

“Don’t discount your own skill,” my father insisted, and I nearly fainted from shock. He didn’t hand out compliments lightly. “Injuries?”

“On their side? Five toms bound and gagged. One ruptured scrotum…”

My father nearly choked. “I assume that would be your handiwork?”

I shrugged, though he couldn’t see me. “He got grope-y. Anyway, one ruptured scrotum, two broken noses, several concussions, one slashed cheek, a knife to the lower chest—don’t worry, he’ll live—and one amputated thumb.”

Another moment of silence. Then, “Do I even want to know?”

“That one was me,” Marc growled. “He got grope-y.”

“Oh. What about the three of you? Everyone okay?”

I answered with another chicken strip halfway to my mouth. “Marc has a gash on his side, but nothing a few Steri-Strips won’t fix. Jace nearly got his skull bashed in. I’m watching him for swelling and signs of a concussion.”

“I’m fine, Greg,” Jace insisted, around an entire potato wedge.

“Faythe, what about you?”

I hesitated, and might not have answered at all, if I wasn’t sure either or both of the guys would do it for me in the event of my silence. “I got cut. On the face.”

“How bad is it?” my father asked without missing a beat.

That time, Marc spoke for me. “Colin Dean marked her from her cheekbone to the corner of her mouth.”

Silence. Horrible, heavy silence, while I waited for his reply. Then, “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. It’s a shallow cut. Once it heals, the scar will be thin.”

“The bastard did it on purpose,” Marc repeated, and my father made no comment about his use of profanity in front of an Alpha; there was no question it fit.