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When I find that girl, I’m marrying her. No way in hell I’m letting her out of my arms, let alone my sight, again.
I freeze a foot from the cabin.
The door is open.
A rasp beside me. “Fallon.” Wyatt’s complexion resembles the color of chalk.
Ready for it, I throw an arm out, cutting off Wyatt before he can barrel past me. His lean body is tense, poised for battle. He whips to me, his jaw set in a tight line. Anger radiates from him.
“Stay the fuck back.” I point at the cabin, look at Ford. “I go in first. He’s armed.”
“Don’t get your ass shot,” Ford hisses. “Again.”
“Remind me to tell you that story,” I promise, inching forward. “We make it out of here.”
“Hold you to it, brother.” Ford nods, grabs Wyatt by the neck. “Go. I got him.”
I step through the open door and do a quick scan of the kitchen.
Empty.
I continue down the hall until I find the bedroom. The door is open, the room dark. I smell the metallic tang of blood before I see it.
God, no.
My brain empties. I feel along the wall for a light switch and when I flick it on, my heart stops.
There’s a body in the middle of the room.
“Dakota,” I rasp.
Dread curdles my stomach. I drop to my knees and roll her over.
Except it’s not her.
“Fuck.”
Fallon’s pale, unconscious face stares up at me. A nasty bruise paints her cheek and temple. Crimson blooms across her torso. It seeps through the fabric of her thin tank top to creep across the floorboards beneath her.
I press my fingers to her neck. Relief floods me. There’s a pulse.
Sluggish, but it’s there.
“Ford,” I shout, grabbing a sheet off the bed. “I need some fucking help.”
Boots rattle the floorboards. Seconds later, my brothers are on their knees beside me.
“Fallon.” Her name tears from Wyatt’s lips. He’s pale as he lifts her into his arms. “No,” he gasps. His hands run over her body like he’s trying to find the hole and plug it.
I ball up the sheet and press it to her side, trying to stifle the spread of blood. Ford’s hands shoot out to grip it. I can’t tell how deep the cut, but it doesn’t look good.
“She’s alive,” I say, “but she needs a hospital.”
With trembling hands, Wyatt cups her face. “Fallon, wake up.” He gives her a shake. “Wake the fuck up.”
“She’s out cold, man.” Ford’s voice is gentle as we watch our younger brother slowly lose it.
Frustration and fear build in me. I scan the cabin—smashed chair, a coil of rope, gun on the nightstand.
