Page 92 of Dark Soul

The back of his dark green jacket was covered in blood, and some of it had splattered onto the white snow beside them.

Dark pulled him gently away. “Ash? It’s okay. Lemercier is down.”

Ash didn’t say anything, but he uncurled his body from around Alexia, helping her to sit up.

Dark ran his hands up and down her body.

There was no blood on her.

“Is she… is she okay?” Ash asked, his usually rough voice thready.

“I’m okay,” Alexia said. “You saved me.”

“She’s okay, thanks to you,” Dark replied, helping the man sit up.

Ash started to say something, then thought better of it and gritted his teeth.

Dark put his hands around Alexia as she started to shake.

And then everyone was there. Dmitri, who threw his body on Nikolai with enough force to squash the boy into the snow.

Slate, Griffin and Rogue, who all arrived at the same time.

“I’ll get the briefcase,” Rogue said.

“Is she okay?” Slate asked, coming to his knees beside them. From the way he moved, nobody would think he’d been run over by a car just hours earlier.

Alexia looked at him and nodded. “Slate,” she said, as if only now remembering his name. “I was so worried when I saw you get run over. “ She spoke slowly, her words slightly slurred.

They were going to have to figure out what Lemercier had given her and Nikolai. Dark looked at the unconscious man lying on the snow a few feet away from them and wished he’d pounded him even harder.

“Ash is bleeding,” Dark said unnecessarily.

Slate nodded. “I saw.”

Alexia shivered in his arms. Dark took off his coat and placed it around her slim shoulders.

Physically, she might be okay. Mentally, they’d have to see what she’d been through.

“I’m going to take off your jacket,” Slate said firmly, already shoving at Ash’s sleeve. “This might hurt.”

“Fuck,” Ash said, going a shade paler.

“Sorry, man, but I can’t have you bleeding to death out here.”

Griffin had almost reached Lemercier when Ilya charged. Somehow, he’d managed to free himself from his zip ties.

The Russian was quick, but Griffin was quicker.

“Don’t fucking move,” he said, raising his Glock-19 at the Russian security guard.

Ilya raised his hands. Something strong and dark—shame—warred in his expression as he stared at the corpse of his employer, but there was acceptance there, too. An acknowledgment of inevitability.

The Russian security guard looked tired and bruised—his neck red and bloody where he’d scraped off bits of skin getting loose from the zip ties.

Dark relaxed, though he still kept his arms tight around Alexia.

He’s not a threat.