“It’s pretty bad as far as nicks go.” Ryder was still grinning. “It might need a couple of stitches.”

He started cleaning the wound and Harlow winced. Easton grabbed her hand.

“Didn’t you duck fast enough, Harlow?” Ryder asked.

“She didn’t duck,” Easton said. “She ran at the guy with the gun.”

Ryder shook his head, putting some ointment on the crease. “Why would you do something that stupid?”

“He was going to shoot Easton.”

Ryder’s hands stilled. “You jumped a gunman to protect Norcross? You do know he’s a former Ranger, right?”

“I don’t care if he’s Iron Man. He was in danger and hurt. That’s all I saw.”

Shit. Easton’s throat was tight. He squeezed her hand and their gazes met.

“Goner,” Ryder murmured under his breath. “Okay, Harlow. I’m going to numb the area, then give you a few stitches. I promise you my best work.”

She dragged in a deep breath. “Okay.” She squeezed Easton’s fingers harder. “Don’t let go.”

“Never.”

Chapter Eighteen

Easton was quiet as they drove the Norcross SUV back to his place. She felt a weird vibe radiating off him.

She now had a bandage on her arm and was the proud owner of two stitches.

“You okay?” she asked.

He didn’t look her way, just gave one curt nod. Ryder had given him a quick once-over as well, and proclaimed him fine, with the exception of a few small cuts on his forehead. He’d cleaned up a little, but there were still blood smears on his temple. That dark vibe seemed to swirl around him, getting denser.

Once he parked inside his garage, Harlow felt some of the tension drain out of her. She felt safe here. Easton was still quiet as they headed up in the elevator.

He turned on the lights and they walked into the kitchen. Harlow dumped her bag on the island. Her bloodstained coat was long gone, and she looked down at her white shirt. It was ruined. It looked like something from a horror movie set.

She turned, and saw Easton just standing there, staring at her.

“Easton?”

He pressed a hand to the back of his neck. “I said I’d keep you safe, and you got shot.”

“Nicked. You know I’m okay.”

“We were in a high-speed car chase, you got shot—”

“None of which is your fault.” It was like a light bulb going off in her head. All this dark brooding was guilt. “It’s Antoine’s and Rhoda’s fault, with a side helping of blame for my father.”

She strode to Easton. He stared at the blood on her shirt.

“I need to send you away,” he said. “Somewhere safe.”

“No. I’m not leaving. I’m not the main target here. Really, I almost got you killed.”

“What?” His brows drew together.