Wake a Sleeping Tiger

Five in the morning was too damned early for a knock on his front door. He

was barely out of bed and showered. His coffee was still dripping into the

cup and he hadn't even had a chance to strap his weapon on.

Cullen Maverick liked things in order whenever possible. It made life a

hell of a lot easier.

Pulling his weapon from his side holster, he made his way to the front

door, confident that if a threat awaited outside, then it wasn't directed by

forces other than a normal workday upheaval. As commander of the Navajo

Covert Law Enforcement Agency, he'd made a few enemies over the years.

Those enemies weren't the ones he watched out for, though. It was the

enemies he'd made as a teenager that worried him.

The knock came again, firm though not masculine in the least.

Recognizing the sound, a direct knock without pounding, he knew instantly

who it was without questioning how he knew. His lips almost quirked into a

smile.

A quick look outside the narrow window next to the door showed a

slender feminine figure dressed in jeans and a light jacket. One of the junior

members of the force, she'd been on a few operations, though he'd refused

to give the go-ahead to move her higher.

Chelsea Martinez, with her black hair, brown eyes and dusky skin of

combined Navajo and Caucasian parents, stared at the door as though she

could will it open. She was a force to be reckoned with when she wanted to

be.

He should know; he was usually the one butting heads with her.

Swinging the door open as he leaned against the side of the wall, he

stared down at her somber, implacable expression with a slight smile.

Dawn was barely lighting the land outside, giving it an otherworldly,

quiet sense of solitude belied by the homes along the side of and facing his

own.

"You didn't call, so I assume this isn't life or death," he remarked when

she just stared up at him silently.

She'd been doing that a lot in the past few months, just staring at him as

though she expected something from him, as though he'd forgotten

something.

She cleared her throat, lips thinning, her gaze sliding from his for just a

second before jerking back.

"I need to talk to you." Quiet, intense, her demeanor wasn't threatening,

just too damned serious.

"Come on, I'll give you the first cup of coffee," he sighed heavily.

No doubt she was there to argue over her place in the Agency again.

She'd been pushing for some of the more dangerous assignments in the past

months. Covert Ops agents were kept quiet. They had no official uniforms,

didn't call attention to themselves. Chelsea was one of their more covert

agents, though she mainly worked in an assistant capacity at the office. She

could streamline files and people like nobody's business. Hell, her name

wasn't even officially listed with the Agency and he liked it that way. It

lessened any danger she might face and ensured he didn't have to worry

about losing a damned good friend because someone else blinked.

She was too young to be part of operations, he'd tried to explain to her,

to make her understand that he couldn't put her in the line of fire until her

training was far more seasoned.

"Here you go." Stepping into the kitchen, he removed that first cup of

coffee and placed it on the round table that sat in the middle of the darkened

room. "Flip a light on if you need to."

He rarely turned the lights on in the place simply because he spent the

least amount of time there as possible. It was a place to sleep and keep the

few possessions he owned. Mainly, his clothes.

Sometimes, the television screen set in the fridge door was on, but not

this morning. He hadn't had time yet to turn it on, and music would get on

his nerves after an hour or so.

"I'm fine," she assured him.

His night vision had improved over the past years. At first, he'd

questioned the change until realizing his twin, Gideon, was in the area. For

some reason the appearance of the Primal Bengal sibling had sharpened a

few of the recessed Breed traits Cullen possessed, but not enough to change

his life. Not enough to worry him.

"Let me get my coffee before we start, minx." He shot her a grin. That

solemn, sad expression was beginning to bother him in ways he couldn't

put a finger on.

"Of course." The answer wasn't exactly what he wanted to hear. "I

know how you are without that first cup."

There was no amusement in her tone, no teasing.

What the hell was up with her?

Leaning back against the counter and crossing his arms over his chest,

he frowned at her. Damn, she looked so sad, not angry or upset. There was a

sense of loss emanating from her, and he couldn't find a reason for it.

Pulling the cup free of the coffeemaker when it finished, he lifted it,

sipped and continued to regard her. She wasn't fidgeting in front of him,

wasn't acting in the least nervous as she usually did whenever she was

ready to put forth yet another position she could hold on an operation.

Anything to get her out of the office and to put her training to work, she'd

demand.

She was a member of the Breed Underground, she'd pointed out the last

time. She'd helped move juvenile and adult Breeds more than half a dozen

times, keeping them just ahead of the Genetics Council or pure blood

fanatics searching for them.

And yes, she had done that, but he didn't command the Breed

Underground. He couldn't disqualify her as a member of the forces that

aided hidden Breeds or mates, so he ground his teeth each time she went out

and argued with her cousins over it on a constant basis.

She was too innocent for covert work, too innocent to be scarred by the

crazies in the world.

"Spit it out," he sighed, lowering the cup and facing her quiet, intense

expression. "What have you come up with this time? What argument do

you think will sway me?"

She blinked a few times and if he wasn't mistaken her eyes actually

looked as though-were those tears?

What the hell had happened? Setting his coffee aside, he prepared to act,

to fix whatever had been done to bring tears to her eyes.

"Chelsea?" he questioned gently. "What's going on, honey?"

Cullen watched as she pulled back the front of her jacket, removed a

folded piece of white paper from inside it and slowly laid it on the table.

Cullen swore he felt the need to growl. One of those deep, dark rumbles

of dangerous warning he'd heard come from his twin's throat more than

once.

Every muscle in his body tensed and he knew, knew to the soles of his

damned feet what that simple piece of paper represented.

His gaze lifted to hers once again.

"You don't want to do this, Chelsea," he sighed. "Come on, honey, we

can talk about this."

They had to talk about it.

They were going to talk about it.

He'd be damned if he'd let her-

"It's my resignation from the Agency," she told him, her tone soft but

firm, determined.

She'd made her mind up. By God, she actually thought she'd made her

mind up to leave him-to leave the Agency. That she could just walk away.

He stared at it, glared at it.

If he had his way it would burst into flames and the memory of it would

dissipate along with the paper.

"The hell you are." Lifting his head, he directed that glare at her.

And she met it.

Not once did she flinch or look away. Not one time did she even pretend

to acknowledge his dominance. Hell, she didn't even consider it.

"The Agency isn't going to work for me, Cullen-"

"Because I don't let you run it?" he snapped. "You don't make the

decisions there, girl. If you did, 'Commander' would be sitting in front of

your name instead of mine."

There were times, few though they had been, that standing firm would

encourage her to back down. She had to back down on this.

She nodded sharply. "Agreed. But I never wanted to run it. I just wanted

to be a part of it, not a glorified running girl for you and the other agents.

That's not happening, so it's time I leave."

His jaw tightened with a surge of anger at once confusing and filled with

frustration.

"You won't give it time," he began, his back teeth grinding.

"I don't have any more time to give it, Cullen." Her lips tilted in

remorse as she lifted one hand out to him before dropping it just as quickly.

"It's just time, okay?"

"Time for what?" He stepped closer, though she chose that moment to

look away from him, unaware he was coming closer, that his refusal to

accept this was about to get up close and personal.

"Grandfather agrees it's time I go. That I find my own way . . . Cullen?"

She turned back, her gaze going first to where he was supposed to be, then

to the shadow suddenly at her side.

"Cullen?" Breathless, a woman's sound, one filled with surprise, a bit of

shock and a hint of apprehension as he swung her around, pulling her

against him, letting her feel the erection he had no intention of hiding from

her any longer.

And damn her. Her lips parted; her eyes, like soft melted chocolate,

stared up at him, widening, then turning slumberous as her breathing

escalated, her breasts rising and falling faster as he held her to him.

What the hell was wrong with him?

That distant thought wasn't enough to stop him, it wasn't enough to pull

back, to free her and let her walk away. He'd known for years, far too many

years that this was coming. And when it happened, letting her go wouldn't

be an option. All that wild independence and pure energy she possessed

would have to be tamed. The thought of the danger she'd face otherwise

was more than he could contemplate.

"This is why," he snarled, his lips lowering to her ear, his own breathing

harder, hunger driving a stake straight to his balls as he fought the need to

take her then and there. To back her against the wall, get her hot and ready

for him before taking her. He'd take her from behind, pushing inside the

sweet heat between her thighs as his teeth gripped her neck-

They were already there, raking over the tender flesh at the bend of her

neck and shoulder, gripping, releasing, his tongue laving the sharp bite. Her

nails were gripping his shoulders, her head resting against his arm as he

held her, the little cry that left her throat one of pleasure and shock. Sharp,

sweet pleasure struck at his senses, the reaction so strong, so deep he felt it

awaken something inside him that he knew he couldn't allow free.

Something dark.

Something hungry-

"Fuck!" As quick as he'd pulled her to him, Cullen released her and all

but jumped back from her.

God, the scent of her, the taste of her skin, so sweet and soft. Giving his

head a hard shake and turning his back on her, he raked his fingers through

his hair and fought to get a grip on himself.

Lust had never controlled him. He'd never let his hungers free like that,

even during his marriage, before his wife's painful death; he'd never felt

that deep, dark hunger, like another presence coming alive inside him.

"God, Chelsea, I'm sorry." What more could he say? He couldn't

explain it, even to himself.

"Good-bye, Cullen."

He turned as she raced from the kitchen to the living room. He'd taken

two running steps to stop her before pulling back, forcing himself to stop, to

let her go. His lips pulled back in fury, a snarl ripped from him seconds

before he turned and plowed his fist into the wall, burying it in the suddenly

crumbling drywall.

Jerking back, he stared at his knuckles, his fingers. They ached, but not

from the strike. And it wasn't just the fist that slammed into the wall that

was aching; his other hand was balled so tight he swore his nails were

pricking the flesh of his palm.

"Damn her!" he bit out, forcing himself back to the kitchen and that

damned letter on the table.

Before he could stop himself, he ripped it to shreds and let the pieces

fall to the floor, watching them flutter with a slow, gliding grace.

She'd be back.

It was just another damned way to show him how serious she was. He'd

put her on one of the less dangerous operations when she came back, he

promised himself. Hell, he should have done it already but he liked having

her with him in the office. She was funny, insightful. She smelled good-

And she'd run from him.

He must have scared her, though Chelsea wasn't the type to get scared

over a kiss. He knew her better than that. And she knew him better than to

think he'd hurt her. He'd give her a day or two, let both of them calm down,

and then she'd be back.

She couldn't have been serious.

He wouldn't allow it. Oh God!

Oh God!

She was just a baby.

Tiny, delicate, a mop of tangled black hair and wide, shock-filled eyes.

Rage clenched Chelsea's guts, formed a layer of ice around her

emotions and stilled her racing heart. Logic and training snapped in and she

forced herself to move into position slowly.

Horror. Terror.

Those distant, primal warnings of evil were pushed quickly to the back

of her mind as the child stumbled forward.

Oh God, she had to get just a little bit closer. If this wasn't timed just

right, if Chelsea didn't calculate everything perfectly, then she knew that

baby wouldn't be the only one who died in this lonely desert tonight.

Night vision glasses allowed her to pick up even the most minute detail

in the deepening night. The sight of huge bite marks over the child's body

would live in Chelsea's nightmares. If she survived. Deep, jaggedly torn

flesh still seeped blood, spilling more down the already bloodstained little

body.

Long, tangled black hair fell to the child's shoulders and covered the

side of her heavily bruised and swollen face. She was weak, far too cold

and suffering blood loss definitely, possibly hypothermal shock. If she

didn't get that child out of there fast, then she was going to die.

Come here, baby. I'm right here. Come on, let me take you to your

momma . . .

The plea was soundless, no doubt useless, but still, she urged the child to

the edge of the rising tower of rock that hid her presence from the Coyote

soldiers.

She didn't dare show herself. If they saw her, then she'd never have time

to get the baby into the Desert Runner she'd taken out that night on patrol.

She was in the middle of a nightmare she couldn't have imagined. Even

her deepest, darkest fears didn't hold anything this horrific.

Demonic yips and howls filled the night with terrifying sounds. They

were merely tormenting the little baby, keeping her little heart beating fast

and hard, her blood seeping steadily from her wounds.

So much evil. The creatures pushing the child through the night were

hellish. Only hell could conceive monsters such as the ones trailing after the

child.

Right here, baby. Come on, Louisa, you're almost safe. Let's go find

Momma . . . She kept her eyes on the child, willing her to come to her, to

sense her waiting in the shadows, ready to scoop her up and race her away

from this nightmare.

"Momma, help me." The night carried the hoarse, dazed little voice

clearly to where Chelsea hid. "Momma, help me." Over and over the ragged

plea filled Chelsea's soul with agony and threatened to pierce the layer of

ice covering her emotions.

If she let the fear free now, then she'd lose her mind, Chelsea knew.

There would be no way to function, to think.

She took her eyes off the child only long enough to check the distance

between the enemy and the little girl stumbling through the dark.

The Coyote soldiers were keeping Louisa in sight. If Chelsea just

waited, remained out of their field of vision, then she'd have Louisa and be

gone before they could get close enough to stop her. Then it would just be a

matter of staying ahead of them until she got to safety.

She'd glimpsed their Runner, but she knew hers would be lighter, the

motor modified to get an edge on the ones being used by the soldiers. The

Breed Underground modified their vehicles for speed rather than defense or

heavy weapons. Still, the Coyotes' Runner would be hard to get away from

without a good head start.

It wouldn't be easy.

Watching the little girl, Chelsea gritted her teeth and made herself wait.

Just a little more.

That's it, Louisa. Come this way. I'm right here, baby.

"Momma. Help me, Momma." The little voice was so weak, the night so

cold, and time was running out.

Holding the blanket she carried ready, Chelsea kept a wary eye on the

Coyotes and waited, still, silent. The body-warming technology of the

covering would hopefully keep the little girl warm enough and protect her

from further chill as they raced through the cold night; the open design of

the Runner would do little to stave off the chill.

The Coyotes paused, yips and laughter filling the desert as Louisa

headed straight for Chelsea, her dazed eyes staring unseeing into Chelsea

through the darkness of night.

She could do this. Louisa was almost in place. Just a little closer.

The kids' parents were about thirty minutes away, their desert estate

well armed as they waited for word of their daughter. Search efforts were

being concentrated in the opposite direction; the report of Coyote soldiers

closer to Window Rock had drawn searchers there.

It was that odd piece of information Chelsea had collected the day

before that placed these creatures closer to Pinon and already had her in the

area when the report went out. She was turning around and heading toward

Window Rock when she'd heard the Coyotes.

The child stumbled to her knees and Chelsea felt her breath catch. She

was so close.

"Come to me, Louisa," she whispered, a breath of sound she prayed the

Coyotes didn't catch.

Louisa made it to her feet, jerky, uncoordinated, but she made it to the

edge of the rock.

Chelsea moved.

Snapping forward, she wrapped the dark blanket around Louisa's slight

body, lifted her into her arms and ran the ten feet to the Runner she'd left on

standby. Before she could jump into the Runner, the night went silent.

Totally, completely silent. There was no time to secure the little girl into the

opposite seat now.

No time.

It had just run out.

As she latched the restraining harness around both of them, the feel of

Louisa shuddering and the sound of her gasping breaths filled Chelsea with

dread.

Enraged howls filled the night as Chelsea slammed the Runner into gear

and the desert vehicle shot forward. The deep tread of the tires bit into dirt,

sand and gravel, then all but picked up and flew through the night.

Thirty minutes.

Thirty minutes to the Cerves estate, and she was on her own until she

got there. The radio had gone out, refusing to work, but there was also a

chance the Coyotes' Runner was equipped with a jammer. And she wasn't

far enough away from them for her radio to work yet.

The Runner's back cameras and radar were working great, though. Good

enough to see that those bastards were gaining on her.

She should have never come out alone.

Under no circumstances.

She should have called in backup when she first heard the Coyotes'

howls. But her cousin Linc was manning communications and he would

have ordered her back.

She'd already been in the area when she picked up the radio

transmissions earlier that night that the Cerveses' young daughter had been

taken from the compound by suspected Council Breeds.

How the Coyotes managed that, she couldn't imagine.

Checking radar and cameras again, she calculated the distance to the

compound and saw a glimmer of hope. She was actually closer than she'd

thought she'd be. Not much farther.

Not that she would be exactly safe once she arrived at their compound-

if she arrived. The Cerves family had brutal reputations. The Cerves

criminal cartel didn't wait to ask questions. They killed first.

As she checked the monitor again, her jaw tightened. Shifting gears with

fierce, quick movements, she heard power build in the motor as she pushed

it for more speed, gritting her teeth and restraining a curse as the first bullet

struck the side of the Runner.

The desert vehicle wasn't bullet resistant and the Coyotes knew it.

Fire flashed in the cameras and the sound of automatic gunfire behind

her, pelting over the Runner, had her using every trick she knew to push the

motor harder, faster.

Gunfire still erupted behind her, but the pinging had stopped. She

estimated she was staying just out of reach of them. But she and little

Louisa weren't home free yet, and she was running straight into an armed

force that would already be prepared to shoot at the first sign of a threat. A

Runner crashing the gates would definitely be seen as a sign.

The night sped by as adrenaline pumped fast and hard through her body

and the Runner raced through the desert.

She had to keep both hands on the steering wheel. At the speeds she was

pushing the Runner to, she didn't dare take one off to comfort the baby.

Louisa was only eight years old, though, and Chelsea knew that comfort

was something the child could have used.

Eight years old.

If she survived, would her young mind ever pull free of what had

happened tonight?

Twenty minutes.

She'd been racing through the night for twenty minutes.

The temperature gauge on the Runner was edging higher. It wasn't

meant to run this hard, this fast, for this distance.

She was close, though. Any minute she should see the glow of the lights

that lit the estate like a damned airport runway.

Guards had surrounded it earlier in the day before Louisa's

disappearance. Surely they were still there.

What if they weren't?

What if the estate was deserted?

As she flew over the next rise, those lights glowed in the distance.

Rather than pulling back, the Coyotes were firing again, and another ping to

the side of the Runner had Chelsea quickly twisting the wheel, fighting to

keep the Coyotes behind her. The chance of a bullet hitting her was slighter

there. There was no protection to the side.

As she drew closer to the estate, she could see men running, automatic

weapons in their hands. The gates weren't opening and there was no time to

stop. If she stopped, her side would be exposed as the Coyotes raced past

her. She'd be easy to pick off.

Praying the reinforced metal of the Runner's front guard held up, she

pointed the Runner toward the gates, her teeth locked tight, her eyes

narrowing on that point. If she could just make it to those gates and crash

through . . .

As long as the Cerves guards didn't shoot her first.

She prayed they glimpsed the Breed Underground insignia she hurried

to flip on. The bright red BU on the front guard was all she'd have to alert

them that she wasn't some dumbass just hoping to break through and cause

murder and mayhem.

No, she was bringing the murder and mayhem.

"Hang on, baby," she screamed above the sound of the Runner's motor.

Louisa's arms and legs tightened around her, but not by much. Chelsea

could feel the dampness of her night suit from the little girl's blood and the

child's cold flesh.

"Momma's waiting for you, baby."

She prayed that Samara Cerves-the Blood Queen, she was called-was

waiting for the little girl who still whimpered for her, and that the savagery

she was reported to have wasn't something her child knew.

Chances were slim, though.

Still, the Cerves compound was the little girl's only hope. And God help

the family if anything happened to Chelsea because her own family

wouldn't play nice.

Automatic weapons were turned on her as a dozen or more soldiers and

security personnel braced to fire on her. Faces brutally hard, determined . . .

murderous.

Her life flashed before her eyes and one image held in her mind.

"Cullen." She whispered his name as the gates loomed, coming closer,

faster. "I'm sorry . . ."

Metal hit metal, the Runner reducing speed with a force that had the

safety seat and harness reacting with the same speed to hold them in place.

The collision rippled around the powerful vehicle, the frame taking the

brunt of the force, the seat reacting to the still-strong shock wave that hit the

interior.

Automatic gunfire ruptured the night as the gates were pushed open, and

the Runner came to a stop several feet inside the interior of the compound.

Chelsea was confident the child hadn't sustained further injuries, though

for some reason, her own arm was burning like hell.

"Wait! Wait!" she screamed, fighting the hard hands that reached in, tore

at the harness and tried to jerk her from the seat. "Louisa. I have Louisa."

She scrambled to release the restraint, trying to be gentle, to hold the

child securely as she whimpered, crying for her momma.

"I have her," she cried out, suddenly staring down the barrel of a gun,

eyes wide, the certainty of death filling her mind. "I have Louisa."

Hands shaking, she let the blanket fall back, her eyes lifting to the cold,

stark blue gaze of the Blood Queen herself. In those crystal-hard eyes

Chelsea saw a mother's torment and a killer's need for blood.

"Momma." Weak, fear and terror worn, the little girl was suddenly

trying to struggle against Chelsea, ragged nails dragging against the

shoulder of Chelsea's black top.

Frantic, hysterical desperation filled the child now; those wide, dazed

eyes flickering with horror would forever be seared into Chelsea's

memories.

The gun barrel jerked back and the woman was reaching for the girl,

screaming for the doctor, and in Samara Cerves's face Chelsea saw such

misery, such pale, terror-filled pain, that she had no doubt little Louisa was

safe now.

The question was, was Chelsea safe?

"Move." She was hauled out of the Runner with a suddenness she found

shocking.

The hands that jerked her from the vehicle were rough and bruising as

she was dropped to her feet, then dragged through the courtyard toward the

side of the mansion. Stumbling, she had only a moment to glimpse the

chaotic activity of soldiers and security personnel rushing behind the

woman known as the Blood Queen and the blood-soaked body she cradled

in her arms.

"Where are you taking me?" Desperation sliced through her as they

disappeared around the side of the house.

She couldn't die here.

Struggling against the powerful grip, she tried to dig her heels into the

dirt and loose stones beneath her feet, only to risk falling and being dragged

along the ground.

Furious cries were falling from her lips, the need to escape frantic when

he suddenly stopped, all but throwing her against the side of the house, his

hand pressing over her mouth and his face only inches from hers.

Green eyes flecked with amber rioting through the irises. Rage burned

in his gaze, in his expression, along with steely, uncontrolled demand.

Cullen?

Shock blazed through her mind, froze all her senses.

"Shut the fuck up and follow me. Now." Turning, he had her wrist again,

dragging her behind him once more, uncaring of the fact that her knees

were suddenly jelly.

What was Cullen doing here? Covert Law Enforcement didn't have an

op with the cartel. If they did, she would have known. Wouldn't she have?

It had just been three days since her resignation, not months or years.

And since when did Cullen do ops himself? He was usually in command

or logistics only. As commander of the Agency, he oversaw the

assignments; he didn't take them himself.

In the four years she'd been with the Covert Law Enforcement Agency,

she'd never known him to go undercover himself.

"Get in." She was lifted and all but tossed into the passenger seat of

another Runner before Cullen went over the hood of the desert vehicle and

slid into the driver's seat with an ease that amazed her.

As he jerked the vehicle into gear, the Runner raced for the back wall

that surrounded the estate. No one tried to stop them. As they neared the

gates the heavy metal barriers opened smoothly, giving Cullen just enough

room as he shot past them.

She didn't dare look at him. She could feel the fury rolling off him in

waves, see it in the hard grip he had on the gear shift as he accelerated

through the night.

The Runner was in lights-off, full covert mode, a model only the Bureau

of Breed Affairs possessed. It was a little heavier than the one Chelsea had

crashed into the estate with, but the motor was far more powerful and it was

equipped with defensive features the others didn't have. They'd have no

problem if the Coyote soldiers happened to see them.

She was going to have a problem once Cullen stopped this Runner,

though, and she knew it. She could feel it.

Decelerating the Runner, Cullen eased the desert vehicle along the back

entrance of his property, then into the dark silence of the garage. Activating

standby mode again, he let his hands grip the steering wheel, his hold so

tight even the tips of his fingers ached.

"What the bloody, insane fuck were you doing out there?" The words

ripped from his mouth, a harsh, guttural growl filling them. "You were not

scheduled out there. You weren't even supposed to be out tonight."

He snapped his mouth shut, his teeth clenched hard, jaw locked. The

memory of that fucking gun the Blood Queen had in Chelsea's face, her

finger on the trigger, still had his blood boiling.

There wouldn't have been a chance in hell for him to jerk that

murderous bitch away from Chelsea before she pulled the trigger. As fast as

he'd been moving, as desperate as he'd been, he wouldn't have made it in

time.

He knew, had known for years, that her work with the Breed

Underground would get her killed. He'd argued with her cousin Linc over

it, fought her grandfather over it, and none of it had mattered.

"It's my choice if I decide to go out at any given time," she reminded

him, that cool, distant tone she sometimes got scraping over his nerves like

nails on a chalkboard. "I need to call a ride . . ."

"I'm your fucking ride." Vaulting from the low vehicle, he stomped

around the back of the Runner, just making the opposite side as Chelsea

jumped to the ground and stared around warily.

"I lost my glasses," she said tonelessly, reaching up to touch her face. "I

don't remember when they came off."

"Probably when that fucking bullet hit your arm," he snapped. "You

have a flesh wound at your shoulder. Come on and I'll check it out."

He gripped her opposite arm, pulling her after him to the kitchen door.

The biometrics on the door had it unlocking at his touch, swinging wide

easily