Page 366 of Primal

Now he’s charging, swinging that fucking scythe. Must’ve chewed through those zip-ties, used a shard of glass or the knife—don’t know, don’t care. All that matters is he came back.

I lunge for the pistol. A Glock 19.

“Move,” I rasp.

Derek’s already backing up, one hand pressed to the wound in his gut, the other limp from the scythe hit. He clocks the gun in my grip.

“Wesley, move!”

He jerks away as I aim.

Derek’s gaze darts between me, Wesley, the Glock.

He’ll charge. Die fighting.

No. He bolts.

bang.

The shot hits the edge of the doorway—he ducks through.

Not the front doors.

A back exit—hidden in shadow behind the pulpit. Camouflaged until now.

I sag back against the stone.

The knife’s still buried in Derek. The scythe drew blood too.

But the bastard got away.

I take one step. Two. My vision whites out.

A yank. Wesley.

“You’ll be dead before you get past the door.”

I wrench my arm free. “Move.”

“Seriously, dude …”

The doors crack open. Wet air swallows the rest of his words.

Payton.

Dripping. Bloody.

She stops when she sees me.

We lock eyes.

She runs—

Crashes straight into me.

My grip on the gun goes slack, arms around her.

Her lips find mine.