“Yet.”
“Save your flirting for the nurses.”
“Depends on the nurse.”
I got an arm under him, dragging him toward better cover. He was heavier than he looked when half his body decided not to cooperate. His blood slicked my hand. The shooting kept coming. Too many angles. Too many muzzle flashes. Someone on our side returned fire from behind the lead truck. Someone else screamed for a medic we didn’t have.
I shoved Nate behind the wheel well, dropped over him, and fired until the figure advancing on our right vanished back into the dark.
“Stay down,” I told him.
“Bossy.”
“You’re bleeding.”
“You’re observant.”
I pressed harder against the wound. Nate hissed through his teeth.
“Sorry,” I muttered.
“No, you’re not.”
“No.”
His mouth twitched, then the humor went out of his eyes. “Dyl.”
I hated that tone.
“Don’t.”
“Something’s wrong.”
“I know.”
“No.” His breathing hitched. “With me.”
I looked down.
Blood bubbled where it shouldn’t.
Chest too.
Not just shoulder.
Cold slid through my gut.
“Callum!” I shouted.
Then the second impact hit me.
For a second, I thought someone had swung a sledgehammer into my side.
There was no pain at first. Just force. A brutal, breath-stealing punch low in my abdomen that folded the world inward. My hand went there automatically and came away wet.
Nate’s eyes widened. “Dylan.”
I tried to answer.
