Page 132 of Snared Rider

It’s Logan.

His chest is to my back as he pulls me into him and gets us into a fetal position, tucking my head under his chin.

The noise is unbearably loud in the space, echoing off the walls. It’s matched only by the racing of my heart, which is pounding so hard in my ears it’s deafening.

Gunshots. The bangs are gunshots.

My brain suddenly catches up and my panic intensifies. We’re being shot at. The windows are breaking because of bullets.

This realisation is so surreal, so outside the realm of what is normal a bubble of hysterical laughter makes its way up my throat. Before I can release it, the window behind us shatters and glass rains down on us both. I hear Logan grunt as he pulls me tighter against him, protecting me as much as he can. He can’t stop it all though and I feel the scrapes and burn of the sharp glass tearing at the exposed skin on my arms.

The noise and chaos carries on for what feels like days but must only last a minute. Then the debris settles and there is only silence.

It’s disconcerting how quiet it is after so much noise. The only sound I can hear is my own laboured breathing and Logan’s chest heaving behind me.

Cradled against him, I’m able to raise my gaze enough to see across the tiled floor which is shining, glass twinkling like diamonds in the mid-morning sunlight.

Fuck.

“You… hit?” Logan rasps the words from behind me, and he sounds… off.

I pull his arms, which are wrapped around me, apart easily. It is concerning that I’m able to do this so effortlessly, and that makes my fear mount as I struggle to my knees and turn to him. My ribs are screaming in pain, but I push that aside, adrenaline fuelling me.

He’s also moving now, coming to his knees, his eyes roving over my body as he comes upright. That he’s moving makes me feel infinitely better and I take a moment to scan him.

His kutte is rumpled, his hair mussed, but otherwise he’s in one piece.

“You hit?” he demands again, his other hand roaming over my body, checking for injuries.

I push him away.

“No. I’m fine.” It’s then I see the blood trailing down his right arm from underneath his T-shirt. “But you’re not!”

I move without invitation to push up the sleeve of his shirt. He doesn’t stop me and I wish he had. The top of his arm is a mess of blood and sinewy flesh. The room spins around me a little as I watch the rivulets of blood trickle down his bicep.

My voice is shrill and wavers as I say, “Logan… You’re shot!”

---