Oh, shit.
Oh, no.
Devony bellowed her fury. She wanted nothing more than to unleash hell on Cruz, but concern for Rafe overruled everything else.
She vaulted off the vehicle. It careened away into the night while she all but flew back to the warehouse.
An unconscious security guard lay in a slump inside the entrance. Two more had been tranced nearby. They were all starting to rouse. Which meant Rafe’s hold on their minds was beginning to slip away.
“Rafe!”
Devony ran farther inside, her senses overcome with the scent of spilled blood. So much blood. Death, too. Axel’s body lay not far from another guard’s bullet-riddled corpse.
And there was Rafe.
Writhing on the floor next to a broken crate that was still oozing shimmery, luminescent blue liquid from inside it. Rafe lay in a growing pool of the stuff. Everywhere the concentrated, ultraviolet material touched his bare skin was hideous with burns. Even his handsome face.
“Oh, my God. Rafe.”
The sound of her voice seemed to rouse him. He lifted his head but his swollen eyelids didn’t, or couldn’t, open. “Devony,” he rasped. “What the hell are you doing? Go. Cruz and the others—”
“They’re gone,” she told him, already crouched at his side. “They drove off in the truck.”
“Liquid UV.”
“I know. Fish told me.” Her boots slipped in the mercury-like puddles as she struggled to pull Rafe out of the spill. “We need to get you out of here.”
He groaned in agony as she dragged him up onto his feet, wedging her shoulder beneath his arm to support him. She didn’t know where he got the strength to move in his horrific condition, but he staggered out of the warehouse with her into the cool night.
“We can’t take my bike. You won’t be able to ride.”
“The guards’ car.” Rafe pointed to the unmarked sedan parked in the side lot.
Devony started the engine with her mind while they hurried toward the vehicle. She carefully helped Rafe into the passenger seat, wincing at the agonizing pain he clearly suffered.
“I’m good,” he said. “Just drive, baby.”
“Okay.” She jumped in behind the wheel and hit the gas.
She drove deeper into the city, unsure where she was going. Her gaze strayed repeatedly to Rafe, her heart squeezing with deepening concern. He was in worse condition than she first realized. His lungs wheezed. His hands were blistered, pulpy masses. UV burns scorched his forehead, eyelids, and cheeks. Even his lips were singed. The peeling, white skin cracked and bled with the slightest movement of his mouth.
He needed help desperately.
What he needed was healing, and from the look of him, there was no time to waste.
She spotted a bridge underpass ahead. The exit ramp beneath it was partially blocked by construction cones and barriers, the entire area cordoned off for repairs. It looked quiet and pitch dark, the nearest place she could see where they could pull over for a while and catch their breath.
“What are you doing?” he rasped from beside her. “We’re slowing down. Why?”
“It’s all right.” God, she hated to let him hear the jagged sound of her voice. She wanted to be strong, but she could hardly contain the emotion that had been lodged in her throat from the moment she saw him back in that warehouse. “I’m pulling over somewhere safe that you can rest.”
“No. Can’t slow down.” Agitated, he shifted abruptly. His wounded hands moved aimlessly in front of him because he couldn’t see. He groaned, a sound of frustration and agony. “I need to stop Cruz. Those crates . . . gotta be stealing that shit for Opus.”
“You’re not going anywhere right now. You need rest. You need healing.”
Against his growled protest, she parked the sedan under the flapping plastic sheet that draped down from the top of the repaired bridge. Swiveling toward him, she drew in a shallow, worry-filled breath. His pain terrified her. It shattered her.
But if she lost him now, because of Cruz and LaSalle?
