Page 52 of Challenge Me

Too late, I realized the trap you’d fallen into; the final man, the one in charge, stood beside the controls of the hydraulic lift. Above you, a black SUV shuddered between its steel arms.

The boss’s hand slammed the emergency release. The lift dropped.

“Lai!” I yelled, too late; you looked up, but there was no time to escape completely.

The SUV crashed down, killing the other man as you dove away. The impact shook the entire garage so violently that glass burst from its windows and rained down to the floor. One lift arm snapped free and struck the concrete with enough force to carve a gouge into the floor.

Dust swallowed you.

I surged forward, shoving debris aside with my bumper. For one terrible moment, I couldn’t see you, couldn’t see anything, until the dust thinned at last; you were on the ground beside the fallen vehicle, your upper body clear but your injured leg trapped beneath one of the twisted lift arms. Your cane lay several feet away. Blood darkened your pants around the knee.

You didn’t care; you swore as the leader sprinted through the rear door, twisting to face me.

“Go,” you snarled through clenched teeth. “Ghost, go after him.”

I stared at the open doorway. The fleeing man who sabotaged the lift was escaping across the rear yard toward his truck.

“Ghost!”

Your face had gone pale. Both of your hands were wrapped around the steel lift arm, struggling in vain to make it budge while your breath came in tight, shallow pulls. You were trying not to show how badly it hurt.

Revenge for John waited for me outside. You were trapped here.

I didn’t even have to think about my choice. My shadow dropped from my hood and knelt beside you.

“Stubborn machine,” you hissed. “I gave you an order. Go after him.”

“No.”

“He’ll get away.”

I hooked my hands beneath the twisted lift arm. A mere shadow could not lift it, but I was not only the shape kneeling beside you; I was every single pound of steel that had gone into my construction, built to be powerful by design. “Keep your leg still.”

You glared at me. Even half buried beneath a vehicle, you had the audacity to look offended.

Ignoring you, I pulled.

Metal shrieked against metal. My tires slipped over oil and powdered concrete before finding traction, and slowly, painfully, the broken arm lifted; barely an inch, but enough for you to drag your leg free.

The moment you were clear, I let go. The steel crashed back to the floor as you rolled onto your back, breathing hard. Blood ran from a cut at your temple, and your damaged leg trembled uncontrollably.

I wanted to carry you, to take human form fully enough to lift you into my arms and put you somewhere safe.

Instead, you reached for your cane.

“No,” I said with a frown.

“Yes.”

“You can’t even stand.”

You planted the cane and forced yourself upright. Your leg nearly collapsed, but you caught yourself against my fender, leaving a bloody handprint on my white paint.

“There,” you breathed. “Standing.”

An engine roared outside, and the fleeing man’s truck shot past the rear entrance and turned onto the access road. Your head snapped toward the sound.

I opened my driver’s door.