“Don’t tell Edge.”
Nate made a low sound. “Oh, sweetheart.”
Her fingers grabbed weakly at my cut. “Don’t tell him.”
That was when I knew she was more scared of her father seeing what had happened than she was of cops, sirens, fire, or bleeding alone in the brush.
Something in me went hard and cold.
“What happened to you?” I asked.
Her eyes filled, but she didn’t cry. Maybe she couldn’t. Maybe she was too drugged. Maybe she had been trained by love and fear to bleed quietly.
“They laughed,” she whispered. “They wanted fire.”
Nate looked toward the glow. “Well, they got it.”
I shot him a warning look.
He shut up.
Sirens screamed closer.
Voices carried from the trail.
“Bike’s over here!”
I went still.
Nate swore.
Destiny’s hand tightened in my cut.
“My dad,” she whispered.
“Not yet.”
I looked at Nate. “Can you move the bike?”
He stared at me for half a second, then understood.
“Dylan.”
“Can you move it?”
“That’s Edge Rourke’s bike.”
“And that’s Edge Rourke’s daughter.”
His jaw worked.
Behind us, another voice shouted, closer this time.
I could see flashlight beams beginning to sweep through the smoke.
Nate cursed under his breath. “I’ll make it disappear long enough.”
“Don’t get caught.”
