I fall before he finishes the word.
My knees slam dirt and roots. Pain shoots up my legs. I scramble sideways on hands and boots while the two men collide against the tree, all grunts and impacts and flashing limbs.
There’s a blade. I see the glint before I process what it is.
“Ever, knife?—”
He moves before I can finish, jerking his head back as the knife slices air where his face was a second earlier. He drives a fist into the man’s ribs, then another punch, short and vicious, and finally does something violent to his arm with a crunch of sound. The attacker folds enough to wrench free.
The knife flashes once more.Then the bastard bolts. One second he’s there, crashing through brush.
The next he’s shadow and sound and gone.
Ever takes one step like he might go after him, then checks himself and turns back to me instead.
He’s still barefoot, breathing harder than usual but not by much. Sweat darkens his shirt at the chest. There’s a thin red line near his forearm where the blade nicked him. His eyes are flat and lethal when they land on me.
He crosses the distance and offers me a hand. I stare at it and push myself up without taking it.
“You lost me,” I spit, fear turning sharp and mean on my tongue. “You lost me and then what—just waited?”
His jaw flexes. “I lost sight of you for thirty seconds.”
“It felt longer!”
The spot under my ribs pulses again—dull heat, wrong heat. I press my palm there without thinking and feel damp under my fingers. Shit. That’s not…
I’m shaking. Badly now. The adrenaline crash is hitting hard and humiliatingly fast, knees weak, hands jumpy, throat aching where the man grabbed me.
Ever steps in and reaches for my face.
I slap his hand away. “Don’t fucking touch me.”
His eyes go dark with something I can’t sort. Anger. Relief. Guilt. All three.
“Let me help you.”
“Don’t boss me around.”
He ignores me and checks me anyway, quicker this time, less gentle than before because I make gentle impossible. Fingers at my jaw. My throat. Collarbone. The lumprising on the back of my head where it hit the tree. He turns my chin left, right, searching for blood, bruising, damage.
His hands skim my ribs—too fast, too high—then he’s back at my throat again, eyes on my face, not my shirt.
The scrape of his calluses over my skin sends a stupid burst of heat through me under all the fear.
I hate my body.
I hate that safety has his scent.
I hate that my pulse won’t choose what it’s reacting to.
“What was that?” I demand, voice rough. “Who the hell was that?”
Ever’s gaze cuts to the trees, then back to me. “Someone who thought he could take what isn’t his.”
My breath catches.
The possessive edge in it should piss me off. It does. It also slides under my skin like a match.
