Page 156 of Roaring Flames

Like Hale and Gerry, huddled in the center of the shifters, matching scowls on their faces as they glare up at the picnic table.

And there, behind them, I see Mr. Remington and Silas.

Emilia and Mimi are with men and women I believe are their parents.

No Desiree.

No Emery or Reid.

I try not to let panic take root. It’s a good thing that I don’t see them. That could mean that they weren’t around when the gunmen arrived and started rounding everyone up.

Taking a deep breath, and bracing myself for what I’m about to see, I flick my gaze towards the picnic table.

Relief causes every muscle in my body to loosen.

Christian’s alive.

He’s fucking alive.

He’s on his knees in the center of the table, his head lowered and his body trembling, but he’s breathing. I can see the rise and fall of his chest.

But what’s wrong with him?

Why isn’t he moving?

Look at me,I mentally scream.I’m here. I’m coming for you. You’re safe.

A force that seems imprinted on every corner of my soul flares to life.

Look at me.

Please look at me.

Christian doesn’t lift his head.

It’s only then I catch sight of the second body beside the first, her features slack in death.

Oh god.

I place my hand over my mouth to muffle my intake of breath. I’m way too close to the edge now to risk making a sound.

Lacey’s dead.

Fuck. Fuck.Fuck.

My breathing turns thready, and I squeeze my eyelids shut and count backwards from five. When I reach one, I snap my eyes open and prepare myself for what I have to do next.

Ashton’s still behind me, his face pale and eyes glazed, and I gesture for him to stay where he is. His brows arch upwards, but I’m already moving through the trees, diving behind a camping chair before anyone can see me.

I refuse to let my guard down as I crawl from chair to chair—all of them scattered haphazardly across the lawn—towards the gunman and the children. The leader continues to speak, his accented voice slashing at my skin like a thousand tiny needles.

I slowly stick my head around the chair and come face-to-face with a toddler with blonde ringlets and puffy cheeks. Her tear-filled eyes meet mine, widening in horror. I quickly place my finger to my lips, indicating for her to remain silent.

She stares at me, her mouth parted, tears cascading down her face.

I have no idea if she’ll heed my request, and I don’t plan to stay around long enough to find out.

Silently, I creep out from behind the chair and move towards the gunman, who has his back towards me. This may possibly be the stupidest thing I’ve ever done in my life, but I have to try.

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