“No.”
Her face twisted.
“I’m not her.”
“I know.”
She tried to sit up.
I stopped her with one hand at her shoulder, gentle but firm. “Don’t move.”
Her breath hitched, and for one second her gaze focused.
Really focused.
On my face.
Recognition flickered.
Not clear. Not steady. But there.
“You were bleeding,” she murmured.
My chest tightened.
Three years vanished.
Rain. Clubhouse. Towel. Edge’s voice.
“Yeah,” I said quietly. “Now it’s your turn.”
Her mouth moved like she might laugh, but pain cut it off.
Nate pushed through the brush behind me. “How bad?”
“Head injury. Burn on her hand. Maybe ribs. Hip or shoulder took a hit. She’s high as hell on something.”
Destiny made a soft sound. “I’m not high.”
Nate looked at me.
I looked at him.
Even half-dead, the girl had pride.
“Sure, princess,” Nate muttered.
Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Don’t call me that.”
Good.
Fire still in her.
That relieved me more than it should have.
I checked her pupils again with the penlight. She groaned and turned her face away.
“Stay with me,” I said.
