Micah hefts himself up with a rough sound of objection, looks back and forth in a quick assessment, and then kneels beside me with a twisting face. “Oh no! Oh baby.”
It’s only then that I realize I’ve been shot.
Not squarely in the chest. My instinctive dive saved both of us. But the bullet sliced through my upper arm.
There’s blood. All kinds of blood. And more pain than I knew to expect once I can finally process such things.
But it’s not a killing wound.
Not even close.
“Fuckin’ hell,” Micah mutters, pulling me up so he can find the injury and inspect it. “What were you thinking? You moved right into the line of fire.”
“I didn’t think it through.” My voice is wobbly because my head is spinning and I’ve broken out in a cold sweat. “There was a crisis, and I acted. Just like you.”
“But you could’ve been killed! You could’ve been killed instead of me!” He’s torn the sleeve off my shirt and pulled off his T-shirt, using the fabric to wrap my upper arm tightly.
“I wasn’t killed. And neither were you. I think this is the best outcome we could have hoped for.”
“No, it wasn’t. The best outcome woulda been me gettin’ shot. Not you!” He sounds angry, but he’s not angry with me.
He’s scared. Still scared about what might have happened.
To tell the truth, so am I.
Micah was almost killed. So was I. Even Molly was in serious danger just now, attacking that man to defend her small pack.
She sniffs my face with a whimper, and I stroke her head and ears. “I’m okay. It’s all okay.”
“No, it’s not fuckin’ okay. He shot you!”
“He’s dead. Nothing else to do to him now. How did he know you? I assume that wasn’t one of Logan’s soldiers. If it was, then we’re going to have a serious conversation about your assurances of Logan not being that bad.”
“He’s not Logan’s.” Micah finishes tying off my arm and stands up, reaching down to help me to my feet too.
“He knew you.”
“Yeah. He was part of that militia gang I went after to rescue that woman. I don’t know why he was so far in.”
“Maybe a scout or something.”
“Probably. But I’ll never forgive myself if my past choices get you seriously hurt.”
“It’s not serious. It hurts like hell, but it looks like just a flesh wound. Don’t you think?” I peer down at my bandaged arm.
“Yeah. That’s what it looks like to me too, but still… Any injury can be a death sentence these days. Do you think you can walk?”
“Probably, but maybe we should take that motorcycle. It will save us the effort of the hike back and might come in handy at some point until the gas runs out. We’ll just have to go slow so Molly can keep up.”
“Good plan.” He wraps a supportive arm around my waist. “Come on, baby. Let’s get you home.”
15
My arm hurts like hell.
It really fucking hurts.
I’ve never been shot before.
