Someone had shot him. Killed him. Was it Tommy? Or the person who’d hired Paul?
She whimpered, heaving frenzied breaths, and fumbled to pull up her jeans.
The rev of an engine approached.
Splattered in blood and scared out of her mind, she moved. Muscle memory took over, her limbs bending and dragging her body across the sand.
The cave. She could hide in the narrow hole.
Tires crunched behind her, shoving her panic into the red zone. Her vision began to fade, but she could still hear.
Footsteps.
A slow gait.
Chasing her.
“Please.” She cried, crawling on her stomach, desperate to get away. “Please, don’t.”
She didn’t know when she’d stopped moving, but her arms wouldn’t work anymore. She continued to fight, mentally reaching for the cave, willing herself to become invisible.
Hands gripped her back and legs, and she flinched, crying harder. Arms lifted her, and she glimpsed a whiskered jaw. A flash of light brown hair.
Her eyes shut, her face pressed against a warm neck. “Tommy?”
He was walking, the sand grinding noisily beneath his steps. But his breaths were louder, sawing in and out next to her ear.
“Hate you.” Her limbs weighed a thousand pounds. Everything hurt.
He laid her on a soft bench seat, and she blinked, trying to adjust her foggy vision.
A dashboard. Air vents. Condensation. Beads of it clinging to the plastic. She was in her truck.
Reaching out, she tried to collect those precious drops. But her movements were uncoordinated, the effort too great.
He bent over her, his body heat invading, too close, too much.
Until a trickle of water ran over her lips. The incredible taste startled her. She choked, lapped at it greedily, and tried to grab the source.
He yanked the bottle away and tossed it into the back of the truck.
“Please. Need more.” She was fading. Dying.
He slammed the door shut.
The woman passed out. Just as well. Tomas was in no mood to listen to her crying.
The risks he’d taken with her life had been necessary. Not everyone would see it that way, but when it came to his friends, he would accept their anger and disappointment over needlessly putting their lives in harm’s way.
Rylee Sutton was a threat. Well, she had been a threat. Now he didn’t know what she was.
Most people wouldn’t last a day out here. The fact that she’d survived without his interference was shocking. He’d watched her like a hawk and skipped sleep, waiting for her to give up or do something stupid like fall into a nest of rattlesnakes.
With the windows rolled down, he navigated her truck across the uneven terrain, holding her head on his lap to prevent it from bouncing.
Sand and blood stiffened her hair, her clothes saturated in grime. Her complexion was too pale for this climate, ephemeral beyond any hope of tanning. Yet the smooth alabaster glow complimented her dark lashes, wing-tipped brows, and long hair. Wild ribbons of brown hung past her breasts, the color as rich and variegated as spalted sweetgum.
Her nose was too delicate, her bones too slender, and her cheeks too silky to have been exposed to the harsh sun. And her mouth… Those lips were far too pouty for his liking. They made a man want to taste and bruise and test how far they stretched around a hungry cock.
Underneath the gore and desert grit, she was outrageously beautiful. A goddamn knockout.
And when she was at her weakest, he’d left her alone with a rapist.
“Fuck!” He slammed a hand against the steering wheel, boiling with anger.
At himself.
At the bastard who’d touched her.
At the fucking shitstorm that had blown into his life.
For the next thirty miles, he forced his eyes on the unpaved wasteland, trying to ignore the guilt and resentment that rode him.
When his childhood home finally came into view, he approached slowly, surveying the property for intruders. Everything appeared in order. Except…
Motherfucker.
A motorcycle sat around the side of the house. Not the sporty, rubber-burning kind that Luke rode. No, this beast was throaty and heavy, made for long hauls on desolate roads. He only knew one guy who was arrogant enough to take an iconic Harley off-road in the desert.
As he parked the truck, the front door opened. Cole Hartman stepped out and leaned against the door frame, tattooed arms folded across his chest and eyes stony in the twilight.
Every time Tomas saw him, the man had more ink on his skin and hair on his face. He looked hard around the edges, fearsome even, like a one-percenter in an outlaw motorcycle club.
“I turned on the air-conditioning in the house.” Cole stalked toward him. “I don’t know how you can stand this fucking heat.”
“I told you not to come.” He rolled up the windows and stepped out.
Cole tilted his head, and when he caught a glimpse of the unconscious cargo, his nostrils stiffened. The cords in his neck protruded, and his face turned red above the beard. “What the fuck did you do?
“Tested her.” He strode around to the other side and dragged her out.
“Tested her how exactly? She looks more dead now than she did in the photo you sent.”
“Here’s an idea. Instead of standing around like a smacked ass, make yourself useful.” He cradled her against his chest and shoved past Cole. “Grab a couple of bags of sodium chloride from the bunker.”
“She’s covered in blood.”
“Hadn’t noticed.” He carried her into the house, and the sudden cold air shot a chill through him. Pausing at the control box on the wall, he raised the temperature. “Don’t fuck with the thermostat.”
“You’ve gone off the fucking rails, Tomas.”
“The IV drip, Cole. I need it yesterday.”
The bunker beneath the house maintained a mild temperature year-round. It was where they kept all the medical supplies and anything that might perish in the heat.
Cole grunted and treaded toward the interior door that led underground. Tomas headed to his old bedroom.
The bed was narrow like the room, but he had everything he needed to bring her back to life. Settling her on the mattress, he gave her limp body a quick perusal, probing for injuries he might’ve missed.
Minor scratches and bruises marred her fair skin. No deep gashes or burns. She’d used the sunscreen and kept to the shade when she could.
Blood streaked her face and arms, her shirt soaked and clinging to her firm little tits.
She needed a bath. But fluids first.
Using the supplies he’d already laid out, he cleaned her arm, washed his hands, and prepped the IV tubing and equipment.
When the sound of heavy boots entered the room, Tomas kept his gaze on his task. “What did you find on Paul Kissinger?”
“Nothing yet.” Cole handed over two bags of sodium chloride. “He returned to her house yesterday morning, snooping around. Then he left Eldorado and dropped out of signal range. Did he show up here?”
“He tried to rape her.”
“What? When?”
“An hour ago.” Tomas bent over her arm, hunting for a vein for the IV drip. Hard to do when her little vessels were deprived of fluid. “Goddammit.”
“The vein collapsed.” Cole crouched beside him, taking up too much room in the small space. “Slow down and try another one.”