Page 121 of Savage Surrender

Owen’s voice is rough beside my ear. “Let Freddie take care of you, Princess.”

“And where are you going?”

His fingers curl against the metal above my head. “We keep the truck on us and go back to the ferry.”

“No.” I let go of Owen long enough to grab Weller’s wrist. “Go around again. Please.”

Ezra’s gaze moves from the road to the mirror. “They’re matching every turn.”

Tristan’s hand shifts above my head. “If there were another route, we’d already be taking it.”

Apparently Megan’s pill can stall a heat, but it can’t do shit for the part of me that nearly died and woke up needing all four of them where I can touch them.

“Megan.”

Her eyes meet mine, then flick toward Ezra.

Freddie presses his knuckles against his mouth. “I can get us to the car.”

Ezra turns into the delivery lane. Brick walls swallow the truck, and the van slows beside the gray door, lined up with the covered cut between the shops. Megan has the latch.

“This is it,” Ezra says. “I have to keep rolling.”

Freddie shoves the sliding door open and jumps down. Megan follows, her laptop bag banging against her hip, then turns back for me.

One foot onto the pavement, then the other. My body resists and every step away feels more sluggish than the last.

“Bianca.” Megan looks toward the alley mouth. “The truck’s at the corner.”

Its engine swells at the turn.

Weller leans toward the open door. “Bianca, go to Freddie.” The alpha command is a whisper. The worst part is my feet listen.

He slams the door closed and I see their faces through the window, watching me watch them.

Freddie reaches for me. “I’m right here. Let’s get out of here.”

I make it one step after them before Megan fists the back of my shirt and hauls me into the walkway between shops.

“Stop dragging me.”

“Then stop trying to go after them.” Her grip tightens when I pull against it. “Fuck, Bianca. I’m trying really hard not to do the same thing.”

White flashes past the narrow opening as the truck follows the van toward the ferry.

26

KATE

The man on the floor is trying not to make a scene about dying.

That’s what I remember most clearly.

“Give him some room,” a woman keeps saying, though she hasn’t moved back herself.

He claws at his collar, his fingers twisting helplessly. Red has mottled his throat, and when he tries to answer the three people asking if he’s choking, nothing comes out but a thin, terrible whistle.

“Don’t put your fingers in his mouth.” I catch the wrist of a man crouched beside him. “Did he eat something? What was on the plate?”