Page 9 of Broken

Damn. If the creatures managed to track them this far, that guy would be a sitting duck when they came out. Cole summoned his wolf, until it was barely under his skin, knowing his eyes were glowing gold. He turned on the homeless man and gave a monster growl.

“Get out,” he said.

The man scrabbled to his feet and stumbled down the alley, out into the street. One more life saved. Cole was a fucking monster hero, that’s what he was. Scaring old men.

Ireland, following him, was nearly to the top. He reached out a hand to help her, and surprisingly, she took it.

Apparently, only so she could immobilize it. She surged up off the ladder, and Cole saw the flash of yet another knife blade heading towards his throat.

Fuck. He hated being right when he hadn’t taken appropriate precautions.

His shifter reflexes saved him—he turned quickly enough so that the knife only caught his arm, slicing through his shirt sleeve and a couple layers of skin.

Ireland slammed into him, knocking him off balance, snatched her bag off his shoulder and ran off towards the street.

Cursing himself for being a fucking amateur, Cole scrambled to his feet and took off after her.

He didn’t have to go far. She only got to the end of the alley before she passed out—he made it there just in time to catch her before she crumpled to the pavement.

Cole grabbed the bag and his rescue/prisoner, depending on who you asked. He headed down the alley the other way, to where he’d parked his van.

Sliding open the side door, he laid Ireland inside and climbed in after her. After shutting the door, he pulled out his handcuffs and cuffed her to base of the seat. He sure as hell wasn’t letting her get the drop on him a third time. No matter how beautiful and brave she was.

Then he stowed the bags in the passenger seat, got behind the wheel, and started the engine.