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I hear a snap like something breaking—maybe a rib or two on impact—and twig boy goes down hard. Hopefully he’s still conscious.
His laptop flies one way, his crooked body the other, hitting the ground so hard he’s stunned.
Eyes wide, staring up at me through broken glasses, and mouth open, he coughs, as if he’s trying to breathe.
I so don’t have time for this shit.
Growling, I grab his shirt with one hand and pull back a fist. “Where is she? Hurry the fuck up.”
He coughs again, barely moving an arm to point at the metal shed.
Before I’m even up, there’s a splintering crash from inside the building.
A deafening roar unlike anything I’ve ever heard erupts.
No, scratch that.
I remember exactly where I’ve heard that sound before, too much like Zeus on a drunken bender tearing open the whole damn sky and coming to take names.
The barn, that day Willow screamed.
Bruce.
And behind all that noise, a second bloodcurdling scream rips through the air.
My blood becomes a lava flow because I know that scream, too.
I don’t recognize the louder, more masculine one. It’s definitely not Willow, but it’s enough to get me moving, my legs spinning like a windmill as I race toward the sound.
I notice the walk-in door just in time and fling my hand out, grabbing at the handle.
Just as I start to pull, the side of the building rumbles like a small earthquake.
Something hits it hard, from the inside.
I throw open the door, leap in, and come skidding to a halt.
I’m frozen with my gun raised, trying to process what the fuck I’m seeing.
Bruce is loose, very much not in the trailer anymore.
He’s standing on his hind legs, front paws on the wall, so pissed he looks like he could maul a small army in no time.
And someone’s under him, pinned against his chest, having their life crushed out—if they’re not missing their head already.
All I can see is a high heel kicked out under the tiger on one side, a leg twitching, curled, almost like a certain wicked witch crushed by a falling house.
But that’s good news.
Willow wouldn’t wear heels to this party, thank fuck.
I spin around and spot Weston’s truck and the trailer.
The back door hangs open like a busted jaw.
Glancing back at Bruce, making sure he doesn’t move, I jog over to look around the side of the trailer.
Weston and I make eye contact, even as he’s doubled over, barely standing. His face only makes me angrier, a network of harsh bruises, knots, and swollen red pain.
“Uncle Grady?” He almost collapses with relief, catching himself at the last second. “Holy crap, am I glad it’s you.”
“Same, my boy. Can you walk? Where’s Willow?” I ask, throwing an arm around him for support.
He leans into me.
“She...” Weston pauses, pointing at the door he was about to open. “She told me to get in the truck.”
I’m about to ask him if he can stand when an angel’s voice rings out a few feet away.
“Grady?” she whispers in a soft rush.
“Willow!” I round the back of the trailer, pulling Weston along with me, and see her standing there inside.
Smudged with dirt, dried blood on her forehead, hair looking like more of a chestnut mess than ever, but hell.
She’s alive, she’s gorgeous, and she’s mine.
Running as fast as those long legs can carry her, she uses the open trailer door as a springboard and lands in my arms. “Grady! I thought I was seeing things when you ran through the—”
I stop whatever she was about to say with a world ending kiss that could shock Robert Oppenheimer.
I know we’re not out of the woods yet.
I know common sense should rule.
I know I should be very fucking concerned about the fact that there’s a raging tiger less than twenty feet away.
But I also know a man can’t stop a star from going supernova, and right now that star is my heart.
You’d better believe I throw myself at her, press her to my chest, kissing and hugging and hellbent on never letting her out of my sight.
“Um, Grady, I hate to interrupt, but...” she trails off with a fading smile.
I break the kiss and set her down, my rifle swinging back up.
“Hey, Unc, uh...you really might want to let her go,” Weston’s voice penetrates the blood roaring in my ears as he staggers to the cab of the truck.
I look over Willow’s head to see why.
Bruce, head swinging with fury and eyes flashing like an entire jungle at war, slowly approaches. Behind him, near the wall, is the crumpled body of a woman on the floor. Not moving.
Shit.
I keep my rifle up, looking for blood on Bruce’s face, hating like hell that I might have to put this beast down if he’s got a taste for human flesh now.
“Hey, Grady, go easy. He’s just upset,” Willow whispers, looking at me oddly. “He won’t—”
