Cole pictured the wolf, Zac, padding around the cavern to the back of the crates, imagined it looking right at them, separated only by wood. Fear crept up his spine, and he swallowed past the lump in his throat. He knew what the crates looked like from the outside. If Logan had put everything back how it was, then dirty old ropes hung down over them, old pots pinning it in position.
But would any of that matter if whoever was out there could smell them?
He’d never wanted to smell like fish so badly before.
“Anything now?” The guy asked, and the wolf must have shaken its head, or whatever it did, because the guy kicked the crate, cursing. “Fuck’s sake. He’s going to have us search outside next and its pissing it down.” He kicked one of the pots and it skittered away over the stone. “But at least it won’t smell of fucking fish. I’m never gonna get this stink off me. Fucking Logan.”
Max’s sharp intake of breath was all the warning he got before bullets ripped into the crate. The sound, deafening in the cavern, was immediately followed by searing hot pain in his leg and side. Shock, terror, the lingering effects of morphine, and Max’s hand clamped tight over his mouth stopped him from crying out.
“What the hell’s going on in there? You find something?” Tim’s yell echoed through the cavern.
“Bollocks,” the guy muttered, then yelled back. “No, false alarm.”
“Then get the fuck back here and go check outside. See what’s taking Aaron so long.”
Finally they heard footsteps going away from them, and it took everything Cole had to hold in a scream. He’d been fucking shot.
Again.
Jesus Christ, he was going to bleed to death in a rotten fish-smelling crate while Logan endured God knew what to try and save them.
Fuck everything.
His blood ran cold as he thought about Max tucked up behind him. “Did they get you?” Shifters could heal, but what about the baby? What if the bullet—
“No, I’m fine.”
Thank fuck.
“It’s you we need to be worrying about.” Max shuffled about behind him, then he heard cloth tearing. “Can you roll onto your back?”
Cole gingerly did as asked, a pained whimper escaping him despite his gritted teeth.
“I know it hurts,” she whispered, giving his good shoulder a squeeze. “But we need to be quiet.”
Cole nodded, trusting her to see it in the darkness.
“Shit,” she muttered as she wrapped something round his leg, then pressed a wad of cloth against his side. “Fucking Lewis McKillan. I’ll rip his head off if we ever get out of here.”
Cole didn’t want to ask, but lying there in the dark, he had nothing to take his mind off it. “How bad?” he hissed out.
She sighed before answering and Cole just knew. “I think the one in your side probably missed anything vital, and it went through and through, like your shoulder. But your leg... There’s lot of blood, Cole.”
And it hurt.
Jesus, it fucking hurt. A wave of dizziness hit him, and he screwed his eyes shut for a moment, breaths shallow.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.
He should’ve been starting a new life somewhere, a life free from the laws forced on them by shifters, but instead he was going to die. Surrounded by them.
“You’re not going to die,” Max whispered, her hand found his and gave it a squeeze.
The crate was almost pitch black, not that he wanted to see, anyway. On the verge of passing out, Cole fought against it as best he could. “Did I say that out loud?”
“No, but I can hear it in your breathing.”
Cole snorted. “Yeah, right.”
