His face didn’t change much. Men like him didn’t need much. But his eyes cracked open in a way that made my throat tighten.
“Give her to me,” Edge said.
His voice was low.
Rough.
Barely holding.
I shifted carefully, trying to keep Destiny’s head supported. “Easy.”
His hand came inside the truck and gripped the front of my cut, not like he wanted to hurt me.
Like he needed something solid to hold onto before he ripped the whole truck apart.
“She’s my daughter,” he said.
“I know.” I kept my voice steady. “And she’s hurt. You pull her out too fast, you might hurt her worse.”
His grip tightened.
Not anger.
Terror.
Regan made a broken sound beside him.
“Edge,” Callum said from the front seat.
One word.
President to brother.
Warning to warning.
Edge didn’t look away from Destiny.
“I need her,” he said.
“I’ve got her,” I said quietly. “Let me get her out safe. Then she’s yours.”
His jaw worked like every instinct in him was fighting every other instinct.
“Dylan,” Nate said carefully from the driver’s seat, “tell him.”
I looked at Edge.
“Head injury. Burn on her hand. Maybe ribs or shoulder. She took a bad fall. She’s high on something, or drugged, or both. She’s conscious some of the time, but not steady.”
Edge’s eyes shut for half a second.
When they opened, the father was still there, but control had forced its way back in.
“Get her out,” he said.
Regan pressed both hands to her mouth.
I eased forward slowly. Destiny groaned the second I moved her, and Edge’s face folded.
