“You’re mine now, pretty bird.”

“Back off, asshole,” a deep, male voice said.

Easton.

She turned her head. He stood on the other side of the Aston, gun in his hand, and aimed right across the roof at Hugo.

He looked terrible, with blood covering the side of his head, but he seemed steady.

“Put the gun down,” Easton said.

“Fuck you, Norcross. She’s coming with me.”

Easton fired.

Hugo ducked and swiveled. Then he lifted his gun, aiming at Easton.

“No!” Without thinking, Harlow leaped at Hugo. The gun fired.

Everything moved like molasses. Pain seared across her arm.

“Harlow!” Easton roared.

She fell backward and hit the ground. She blinked and everything came back into focus.

She heard more gunshots. Saw people running.

Then she heard the roar of a motorcycle and saw the sleek, black bike screech in. Rhys Norcross leaped off, gun in hand.

Then Saxon and Vander sprinted into view.

Easton dropped down beside her.

“Dammit, Harlow. What the fuck were you thinking?” He pulled her coat open.

Red blood blossomed all over her white shirt, and bile rose in her throat. “That I didn’t want him to shoot you. That I had to protect you.”

Easton froze, staring at her for a beat.

Then his hands tore at her shirt. “Hold on. I’ve got you. You hold on, Harlow.”

* * *

Easton fought back the panic making his heart hammer against his ribs.

He tore open Harlow’s shirt, conscious of Vander barking orders at the others and securing the scene.

When Easton had seen Harlow jerk and go down…

Fear tasted really bad. He was so damn terrified. He’d been in too many firefights to count with the Rangers. He’d seen so many good soldiers die from bullet wounds, bodies ripped to shreds.

He remembered trying to save a new Ranger who’d been shot in a nasty firefight in Iraq. Simon had been young, idealistic, and he’d died in Easton’s arms.

Watching Harlow fall…

He got her shirt open and saw her wound. The air shuddered out of him.

“Is it…?” She swallowed. “God, how bad is it?”

“It’s—”

“Tell me the truth, Easton.” She grabbed his hand, squeezing her eyes closed.

“It barely nicked you.” The relief made his head swim.

Her eyes popped open. “What do you mean?”

Vander appeared out of the darkness, his face tight. “She okay?” He looked down, and his body relaxed. “Barely nicked her.”

Harlow sat up. “I went down. I’m bleeding everywhere. It can’t be a nick.”

“Baby—” Easton fought back a smile at the indignation on her face.

“It also hurts. A lot.”

Vander made a noise suspiciously like a snort.

Easton pulled her close, and pressed her coat against her arm to staunch the blood flow.

“The bullet grazed your arm.”

“That counts as shot, right?” she said.