The weight vanished and the hand in her hair tightened, causing her scalp to burn. “On your feet.”
It was awkward, rising with fingers twined in her hair. When she finally stood, fisting the handles of her bag so tight the material bit sharply into her palm, she saw the men directly in front of her. Her heart slammed into her throat, blocking her intake of air, making it difficult to breathe. Shepherds formed a semicircle around her, and she knew her number had been called. They were all dressed the same in brown dusters, button-down shirts and Stetsons that created shadows around their eyes. She didn’t recognize any of them, so they had to have been sent from another farm or compound. She knew her uncle wanted her dead. She just hadn’t banked on how far he would go to get the job done.
Did she run? Scream? Try to fight?
Dismally, she realized the answers were no, no and no. She’d only give them a reason to kill her faster. Her heart hammered in her chest, the will to live battling her compulsion to end her suffering before it started. Maybe it was better if they killed her now. Elijah wasn’t with them so they obviously planned to take her to him. Her body quaked in fear when she thought of the ways he’d make her suffer. She knew what her uncle was capable of. If he wanted, he could extend her anguish for days.
A van pulled off the road and drove toward them. The Shepherds in front of her turned and started walking toward the vehicle.
Transportation had arrived.
This is it, the final showdown.
She brought her free hand to her head and grasped the fingers of the man gripping her hair. When she had a good idea of where his wrist was located, she buried her fingernails in his flesh, clawing like a crazed alley cat. He released her hair, which gave her the opportunity she’d been hoping for. She ran as hard and as fast as she ever had in her life. The only sounds she could hear were muted shouts from behind her. The fence barring her path to an alley was one she’d scaled before, and she was damn grateful she’d practiced climbing and jumping over it when she reached the chain-link obstacle. After she tossed her bag over the side, she hoisted herself to the top and jumped over it.
“Shoot her!” someone yelled. “Elijah will understand why we didn’t bring her in. Her soul is lost. She’s damned.”
The same airy poofing noises she’d heard in the store seemed to buzz past her when she retrieved the duffel and took off. Then she felt a sharp slice on the side of her head. It was impossible to run when she crumbled to the ground. She had to use one of her hands to keep her balance, placing her palm on the ground. Warm wetness coated her scalp and dripped down her face. Lifting her free hand, she touched the oozing pool of blood coming from her head. Everything became hazy as the world started to spin and distort, as if she were floating on a rotating cloud.
She fell forward, landing on the unrelenting hardness of the pavement. Warmth bloomed from the wound in her head, blood spreading like thick, hot paint through her hair. She didn’t notice the shouts from the men chasing her or the odd snarls and growls that accompanied them. All she could think about was how cold it had become, how weak she suddenly felt and how much she wanted to close her eyes and go to sleep.
“Kill them all!” a hoarse voice thundered. “We don’t have time to fuck around. Get your woman. We have to leave.”
Footsteps approached but she couldn’t run—not like this. She waited for her end, to meet death with her pride intact. Unexpected, gentle hands turned her over so that she was no longer facedown on the dirty concrete. She blinked several times to bring the face of the man staring down at her into focus, to get a glimpse of the person who would see her life come to an end.
“Mary,” he whispered.
She closed her eyes and basked in the sound of those two hushed syllables. She’d know that voice anywhere, would recognize it no matter how much time had passed.
Emory.
Elijah hadn’t killed him. But what was he doing here? Why was he showing up now? How did he know where she was? What in the world prompted him to show up at the same time Shepherds had decided to strike? There was so much to say, too many questions, and her grip on reality was quickly slipping.
“Don’t hate me,” she pleaded. Damn it. Her voice was so weak, so helpless. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.”
“I could never hate you.”
He stroked the tips of his fingers across her cheek and she sighed and closed her eyes. The pain was less now, the burning stab at her temple becoming an annoying throb. All she wanted to do was sleep, to succumb to the land of slumber. The caress abruptly ceased and the once-tender fingers against her skin became firm as they trapped her jaw and squeezed.
“Don’t do it, angel eyes,” Emory snapped, but it was alarm and not anger she detected in his tone. “I’ve been through hell to find you. Don’t give up on me now.” As he lifted her in his arms, he screamed, “Doc, I need you!”
The shuffle of feet whispered in her ears and then someone appeared and flashed a light in her eyes—first the left then the right. After several seconds the man inspected the wound on her head. His touch was gentle, fingertips lightly prodding her scalp. Dimly she realized people were talking but she couldn’t understand them. She was hovering above it all, blanketed in the one thing that gave her peace.
Emory was alive.
She’d allowed herself to hope he was. To believe he’d survived the gunshots she’d heard as she’d run from him. No matter her horror at learning what he was, she’d never wished him harm.
He shifted her against him, cradling her head in the space between his neck and shoulder. Although he’d held her hand once—had wrapped his long, calloused fingers around hers in a gentle fashion—he’d never taken her in his arms. She’d always wondered what it would feel like. He was so much larger than her, so intimidating. What would it be like to be held against his chest? To feel him exhale against her mouth before he kissed her? Would he be slow and gentle? Aggressive and bold?
As though he read her thoughts, she felt the enticing heat of his breath right before his lips brushed against hers. So soft and sweet, moving side to side in a lingering caress. He was deliciously warm, the muscles in his arms flexing as he angled her head for better access. He smelled as good as she’d known he would—a clean, woodsy and masculine scent. The absence of his mouth when he pulled away made her want to draw him back, to ask him to do it again.
Her very first kiss, something she had daydreamed about since childhood, had happened like this. With her bloody and dying in the arms of the man she had fantasized about.
It didn’t seem fair.
Emory said something but she didn’t understand him. As she tried to piece his words together she found herself drifting into darkness. Her final thoughts were of being in Emory’s arms, the odd but profound comfort his nearness created and the sadness that arose from knowing they never had, and never would have, the opportunity to truly know each other.
“Mary?” Emory shook his mate gently, trying not to panic.
He’d found her. Thank fucking God he’d beaten her uncle’s henchmen to her location. As he peered down and gazed at her face, he noted the dark circles under her eyes, the tiny scrape on her chin. She’d lost weight—too much weight—and felt so tiny in his arms, so frail. No wonder, considering she’d been on the run for months and living in a shithole.