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As the crowded elevator began its descent, Isaiah caught sight of their pride’s healer, Helena. Carefully skirting around one of the children, he sidled up to her. “Helena, you ever heard of healers who mostly specialize in numbing pain?”
She blinked. “I have, why?”
“The female I may take as my mate is that sort of healer,” he told her.
Her eyes widened in delight. “Awesome. She’d make a wonderful addition. I can heal physical wounds, and the omegas are great with emotional drama. But we can’t help the elderly with sore joints, or the migraine sufferers, or people who deal with constant pain from old injuries that didn’t heal well.”
Right then, the elevator stopped and its shiny doors parted.
As they stepped into the lobby, Isaiah scanned the parking lot via the large window and spotted no signs of anything untoward. Farrell did the same, his hand clasping that of his mate who carried their toddler. An enforcer always patrolled the lot, but it never paid to be too careful.
“You know,” began Helena, “if she can help Aurora with her colic, Bree and Alex will love the woman forever.”
Humming, Isaiah pushed open the main door. “Not sure Alex will allow a virtual stranger near the baby, even if it’s my mate.” The wolverine took hyper-protective to an entirely new level.
“He wouldn’t let Aurora suffer unnecessarily, paranoid or not.”
Isaiah held open the door for Helena and the others to file out. He then let it swing shut and moved to cover the rear of—
A series of loud sounds cracked the air in superfast succession.
Bullets.
Several people stumbled. One dropped like a stone. Voices cried out in alarm and pain. The heavy scent of blood peppered the air.
His cat lunging to the forefront of his mind with an enraged snarl, Isaiah grabbed Tate and ushered him back into the building as Bailey and Aspen did the same with Havana.
“Inside!” he yelled at the others, though it wasn’t necessary—they were all fleeing as fast as possible, either dragging or carrying the injured with them.
The whole time, bullets kept flying.
He flinched as a hot fist slammed into his thigh and exploded. “Fuck.” His cat roared its fury, raking at Isaiah’s insides; wanting freedom to hunt and kill.
No, teeth and claws weren’t a match for guns.
Isaiah was about to follow Farrell inside, but then he saw her—a small child crouched down, terrified, her hands plastered to her ears. Her mother was trying to get back outside to grab her.
His cat stilled, its heart stopping.
Isaiah made a move toward the little girl, but more bullets were fired near his feet, pinning him in place. Again, his cat roared—the sound so loud it seemed to bounce off the walls of Isaiah’s mind.
Deke, Farrell, and Camden attempted to rush out, presumably to scoop up Emeline, but bullets peppered the door—which was thankfully bulletproof.
Tires screeched as a black, mud-slicked car came zooming toward the building. It halted, a rear door swung open, a slim male slid out wearing a clown mask… and he then darted straight for Emeline.
Fuck, no.
Isaiah acted fast, lunging at him. He crashed into the male, sent him toppling to the ground, grabbed his neck and—
Snap.
He went limp beneath Isaiah.
A bellow of pained rage filtered out of the open front passenger window. A masked head poked out, and it looked as if they’d leap out of the car. But then the vehicle started reversing fast as shifters began to converge on it from all directions.
The front passenger pointed at Isaiah. “You motherfucker! You’re dead! You are dead!” Then the car was gone from the lot and speeding down the road. Several of his pride mates hopped into vehicles and zoomed off in pursuit.
Trying to ignore the hot throbbing pain in his thigh, Isaiah struggled to his feet just as people came tumbling out of the main door—some of who hurried over to little Emeline.
