The minutes passed, an eternity of minutes, and the sounds of people behind her grew louder, faded, then disappeared. Relief swept through her. She’d lost her pursuers.

She’d also lost any sense of where the road might be. Cazzo, cazzo, cazzo. A new fear crept up her spine.

The forest darkened around her. It couldn’t be sunset already. No, not sunset. Black clouds filled the sky. It was going to rain; she just knew it.

She stumbled up onto the bank, and the icy water drained from her boots. Her feet were numb. Her sleeve was wet—and red—because her upper arm still bled. A deep furrow cut across her deltoid and burned like fire.

Stop the bleeding was a basic first aid rule. And she sure didn’t want to attract bears or anything.

But with what? Her socks were wet and muddy. She wasn’t wearing anything that would—okay, maybe she was. No one was around to see her breasts, right? She pulled off her shirt and bra and wrapped her bra around her arm, then awkwardly used her teeth and free hand to knot it. An icy wind whipped over her bare skin.

As she eased her shirt back on, she shivered. That bullet could easily have struck her chest. Or her head.

Keep moving.

Farther down the stream bank, a small trail disappeared into the forest. A hobbit trail—because hobbits were a lot less scary than bears. It finally wound its way to a bigger trail. Um, did that mean it had bigger animals?

Maybe it would eventually reach a road. She kept trudging, her boots squishing with every step, her feet cold and blistering within wet socks.

An odd feeling ran down her spine and raised the hair on her nape. She halted. What a creepy feeling, like…like someone was watching her.

A low growl came from the side, and she spun. Wolves! In terror, she stared at the undergrowth.

“Frankie?” The deep rumbling voice was the most wonderful sound she’d ever heard.

“Bull!”

When he stepped out of the forest onto the trail, she ran straight at him—and he pulled her into his arms.

Into safety.

The little New Yorker was twined around him tighter than a morning glory vine…and shaking so hard her bones should’ve rattled. At his feet, Gryff whined, tail whipping furiously.

Jesus, what’d happened to Frankie? Bull’s jaw clenched. They’d heard gunshots a while back…

“Easy, Frankie. You’re all right.” But was she? “Hawk, is she hurt?”

“Yeah, bro. Bloody sleeve. Clever girl wrapped a bra around the wound. Clothes are ripped.”

Bull stiffened.

Hawk said hastily, “Torn up from the brush, not a person.”

Frankie pulled back, gripped Bull’s arms, and gave him a shake. “Quiet. They’ll hear. They have guns.”

His suspicions confirmed, fury rose inside him. Someone had shot her.