Page 105 of Bared

But even worse, his sudden silence.

His formidable face was too damn still, illuminated in orange-and-amber shadows that chased them from the explosions below. Jayd pushed past the temptation to scream, funneling her attention in. Poring her focus over the most important thing in her existence right now. The downed warrior in her arms, so terrifyingly still. The leech of color from the rugged planes of his face. The shallow rises and falls across his mighty chest. The awkward sprawl of his timber log legs, stretching into the main cabin—where another dark-red pool gained traction across the light-cream carpeting.

“Creator’s damnation.” As the rasp spilled from her, unbearable heat gathered behind her eyes. But raw fear eclipsed her tears. She could only take that energy and push it all at the first person who would listen. That human should have been Brickham. She stifled a scream—barely—that it was not.

“Oz,” she demanded of the man “lucky” enough to stand in for him. “Tell me,” she stammered. “Ozias? Talk to me, damn it.” Air clutched in her throat as she followed every move the Australian made, his cautious assessment interjected by barely audible grunts. “Is he all right? It—it is not that bad, is it?”

But the new pang of bile in her belly made her see those words for what they were. Stabs at the truth she was battling to mold. A reality in which a man was not limp, unconscious, and bleeding in her lap.

No. Not just a man. This was the hero who, in less than twenty-four hours, had broken past her defenses to uncover her, discover her, fulfill her. Who, in some ways, knew her better than most people who had known her for twenty-four years. Who had defeated predator bonsuns for her. Who had even confronted the demons of his own mind for her. Now she owed him the same bravery.

No. She owed him more.

Even as she watched Oz’s scowl intensify as his assessment continued. Yes, even as the man scooted back up to look at the crimson deluge from the corner of Brickham’s temple. The terrifying stuff flowed down through the rough chaff on that side of Brick’s head, forming a gory topographical map she could barely look at.

Still, she forced herself to demand, “Oz? Please talk to me!”

Only when Emme dropped to her side, soothing her with sounds and touches, did she realize how deep she had fallen into the shrill shrew bucket. Jayd gulped hard and forced herself to breathe. That brought back a little clarity, though total victory there felt as distant as the ground below—and yes, even the island homeland that was so far away. Too damn far.

At last, Ozias sat up. Her attention whipped back to him. After a decisive breath, he stated, “The nick in his forehead is long and elliptically shaped—and bleeding like a damn dingo with the runs.”

“Which means what?” she pressed.

“That it’s likely just a graze.” He hauled in more air while settling his hands atop his thighs. “So that’s the good news.”

“The good news?” Jayd spat.

“Rahmie Creacu,” Emme whispered, sweeping both hands in the air over Brickham’s body. In other cultures, the motions were compared to witchcraft spells, but on Arcadia, they were a call for the Almighty to harness natural forces for physical and spiritual healing.

Jayd was grateful for the move due to other reasons. She needed a second to regather her strength.

“All right,” she finally blurted, nodding at Oz. “The bad news?”

The Aussie nodded as Jagger dropped down next to him, bearing a half-meter stack of cloth hand towels. “As you can likely tell, he’s also been hit in his shoulder and thigh. Best as I can tell, the bullets have hit solid meat instead of bone, but there’s no way of assessing the damage until we can get the rounds out. And no way in hell can we do that here.”

Jayd ground her teeth to avoid screaming. From the midst of that agony, she charged, “So where do we do it? Should we tell the pilot to land?”

“No.” The denial was immediate, emphatic, and in stereo. After Jagger joined Oz to issue it, he determinedly went on. “The Gendarmerie has likely gotten some alerts out already. If we put down anywhere in France, Italy, or Greece, they’ll arrest Brickham first and ask questions later.”

Oz backed it up with a somber nod. She copied the motion but not the attitude. With every authoritative tone she had ever been taught, she decreed, “So we push on to Arcadia.”

Oz grimaced. “It’s our best option.”

Jagger shoulder-butted him. “My love, it is our only option.” At the same time, he reached over and wrapped a hand around her wrist—but the reassurance only succeeded in stamping her skin with the blood on his fingers.

Brickham’s blood.

Damn it, damn it, damn it.

She gave in to the inner rant again. Then again. It was her only thread of control in this surreal situation. They were helpless until the touchdown at Sancti, with naught but the droning engines and minor air turbulence to inform them progress was being made toward the airstrip on her island.

Where she would disembark this flying trap—before having to walk into another.

She harbored no illusions about machinations that were happening as they flew south. Most notably, the ones in Carris’s control. Even with a shot-apart knee, the bonsun would be demanding a phone audience with Evrest so he could lay out every detail of the evening’s insanity for her brother. Correction. All three of her brothers. She envisioned each of their unique reactions to Carris’s caterwauling. None of them were pretty.

But none of them panged worse than continuing to watch as Brickham slept on.

Slept?