Page 47 of Rogue Games

Looking furious at first, and then worried, he backs away before turning and bolting into the trees. I keep peering up, expecting to see Joel appear above me to finish the job, but there’s no sign of him.

Blood pours down my face from a cut to my forehead, blinding me. Shaking my head to clear my foggy brain, I spot a small ledge over to one side. I go to raise my other arm, to drag myself over to it, but nothing happens. I can’t lift it. I’m stuck here, swinging aimlessly, my raw hand growing more and more tired by the second.

Fighting hard against the urge to pass out, I blink away the blood and the spots dancing in front of my eyes and wrap my feet around the rope, pushing my body up as high as I can get, taking as much of my weight off my one good arm as I can. I can’t let go of the rope though; with only one hand, just a tiny wobble will send me backward into the canyon.

So, I swing, swaying from side to side, trying to get enough momentum to carry me close to the ledge before it snaps, and I plummet to my death in the canyon below.

With one last push, I gain another few inches, as close as I’m going to get, and launch myself toward it.

Landing awkwardly, I cry out at the pain in my dislocated shoulder as I roll onto my side, away from the dangerous edge. Afraid of sliding off, I bury the fingers of my good hand in the dirt and claw my way further onto my precarious perch.

“Thank fuck.” I pant, my nose pressed to the dirt, eyes shut as I let a wave of nausea wash over me.

Glancing nervously over my shoulder, there’s no sign of Samuel on the far side. I have no idea what he might be planning, but the only saving grace is that you’d have to be certifiable to climb down to where I am, especially in this weather.

He’ll either continue on and act like nothing happened, hoping I fall into the water below, or he’ll circle back and wait up top for me. Looking at my useless limb dangling by my side, I curse.

Until someone realises I’m missing, I’m probably in the safest place I can be. Up there, I won’t be able to defend myself.

Resting my palm against the canyon wall to steady myself, I try not to scream in pain as I reposition, resting my back against the steep edge to get as much shelter as I can from the savage weather.

“I can’t get a good foothold…” I mumble to myself, cursing at the slightly sloping ledge as my fingers slip on the rocks and loose mud. It’s a constant battle not to slide forward.

I force my legs to straighten slowly, thighs burning, and wedge my heels against a rock and gnarled root as best I can. Resting my arm across my lap, I stare out at the dark sky and the sheets of rain, picturing all the wolves on the course taking cover from the same storm. Nobody will be shocked when I don’t make it back by cut off. If this weather continues, they might not even know I’m in trouble until daylight, assuming I found shelter out of the course until it passes.

Except for Wyatt. He’ll know.

But as my ass slides forward and I have to shove myself back against the cliff face, I wonder whether it’ll be soon enough.

23

DEAN

As we hit the lakeshore, I see two men, arms looped around a third shifter’s back, carrying him across the finish line. The younger wolf’s ankle is obviously broken, and it will need to be realigned before the healing process begins. It’s going to hurt like hell.

Pale-faced, with thin lips pulled back in a grimace, the youngster draws in a sharp breath as they slow to a stop, every movement jostling his damaged leg.

If these are the first across the line, carrying this man between them, they obviously didn’t complete the full course.

“Alpha, this is Alan. He’s from the Moon River pack. Got into a spot of bother on the rocks.”

As the two men, brother’s I’m guessing, get him to take slow deep breaths, I commit their race numbers to memory. They sabotaged their own chances of getting through to get this stranger back safely. No easy feat in stormy weather and on tired legs.

These are exactly the kind of people we’re looking for.

Technically, they should be out, but rules are made to be broken.

“Jax? Take Alan to the med bay. Get Maggie to come and help. I don’t care what she’s doing. I’ll command her if I must.”

The brothers are exhausted from carrying him back at speed, getting him help before the bone resets in the wrong position.

“She won’t say no to this,” Jax says, looking vaguely disgusted at how Alan’s foot is bent at a sickening angle. He waves over Beckett and gestures for him to duck under Alan’s shoulder so he can help take his weight. “Come on. We’ve got him.”

DEAN: And tell her I want to talk to her when she’s done.

Jax and Beckett seamlessly take over supporting him as the other two wolves let go, standing straight to stretch out their sore backs and catch their breath. Alan grunts, sweat beading on his forehead, as Beckett and Jax bring him to the top of the hill where a golf cart should be waiting to carry him to the sick bay.

“Good luck, Alan,” one calls after him, supporting their fallen comrade. “We’ll see you in the bar later to drown our sorrows.” Alan’s competition is over, and the men think theirs is too. One rests a hand on the other’s shoulder and gives it a squeeze, clearly disappointed, but knowing it was the right thing to do.

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