Page 102

“Rowan!” I hear Annie’s quick footsteps as she runs toward me, and when she struggles to get Grigori off me, I help her and shove the fucker to the side while sitting up.

She throws her arms around my neck. “Yay! Oh my God! You won. I’m so proud of you.” Wrapping an arm around her, I slump back again and just look up at Annie’s smiling face. “I knew no one would be able to beat you.”

“We have to go,” I say, gathering my strength and climbing to my feet.

She drops the machine gun and quickly places her arm around me. “Which one is our yacht?”

A wave of dizziness makes my head spin, and I barely have it in me to lift my arm and point at the black vessel that’s moored at the end of the dock.

Blood drips from my fingertips, and now that the fighting is over, pain tears through me.

“I’ve got you, my wolf,” Annie says, while tightening her hold around my lower back and gripping my blood-stained hand by her shoulder.

I have to reach the yacht and make sure she’s safe.

My legs feel like lead, and the dizziness comes in waves.

“Rowan?” Her tone is filled with worry. “Are you okay?”

“Yes.” The single word is nothing more than a harsh breath, but I keep pushing myself because so help me God, Annie will be safe on that yacht before I go down.

Finally, we climb onto the deck, and the man who must be Javier comes hurrying toward us.

“Mr. Callahan,” he says, a worried frown on his forehead. “Can I assist with anything?”

“Get us out of here,” I manage to order with a threatening tone. “And don’t stop this yacht until you reach Colombia. Not for anything.”

Just then, the engine roars to life, and as the vessel begins to move, my legs give way, and I fall to my knees.

“Rowan!” Annie cries.

I want to tell her I’m fine, but crashing, I slump to the side, and everything goes black.

She’s safe.

Annie

I’m consumed with fear and worry as the man helps me move Rowan into the cabin. It looks like we’re in a luxurious living room, then we go down a hallway before heading into a suite.

Not caring about the white bedspread, I huff and puff as I haul his heavy body onto the bed.

Gasping for air, my eyes flit over Rowan, and seeing all his injuries, my mind switches over to a higher gear instead of spiraling into a panicked mess.

“Bring me warm water, a washcloth, and whatever first aid supplies you have,” I order with urgency lacing my tone.

While the man runs out of the cabin, I begin to take off Rowan’s boots and socks. Next, I undo his belt, and it’s only then that I remember his guns. I grab his sides, and it takes more strength than I thought I had to turn him toward me. I lean over him and pull the weapons out, tossing them on the covers before settling Rowan on his back again.

“You’re going to be okay,” I say, desperation coating my words.

I return to his cargo pants, and pulling down the zipper, I begin to jerk on the fabric, tugging it down his legs but leaving his boxers on.

The man comes back with a big white box, and he pulls an armchair closer before setting the box down on it. He opens the first aid kit, then rushes out of the room again.

I glance over all the supplies, and seeing a pair of scissors, I grab them and carefully cut Rowan’s torn shirt open.

Oh my God.

A gasp explodes over my lips as I peel the blood-soaked fabric away and see all the raw and painful-looking cuts on his torso.