Page 99 of Striker

“Asshole got me,” I say as my eyes move over to Rune. A break between the bodies gives me a glimpse of Hunter. His mask has been torn away and, like he can feel me looking, his dark eyes meet mine. They grow large and he jerks in Rune’s grasp.

“Get him out of here!” Hunter screams. “Reaper, I swear to god get him out of here!”

Reaper curses, looking from me to Hunter. He shakes his head. “No.”

“Do not let him die!” Hunter screams. My vision swirls in and out of focus, but I keep my eyes locked on Hunter. His face contorts and my insides feel like they’re contorting, stretching, and twisting too.

“No.” I shove Reaper away. Pain lances down my arm. “Go. Go get him, Reap.Please.”

“Fuck.” Reaper’s shaking hand lands on his helmet and he hits. Once. Twice. “Fuck.”

Isuck in a shaky breath, and my gaze falls to my weapon laying across my lap. That’s when I notice the blood. It pools in my lap, coats my glove, thumps between my ears, making my head swim.

Breaker’s face appears and then I’m hauled up, one arm holding me up from either side. Dammit, I’m tired. I wish they’d just let me lie back down. I just want to go to sleep. Like in the darkness, when I went to sleep and there wasn’t pain anymore.

The thumping in my ears slowly gets louder, the wind picks up. Leaves and dirt hit my face. I glance up at the starless night and make out the black chopper swooping in low.

I don’t realize I’m screaming until my throat grows raw.

We can’t leave him.

Please, we can’t leave him.

Please.

“Please.” My begs are ignored as they drag me forward. “Reap. You know we can’t leave him. He’s my—”

My vision blacks out before I can finish, cutting my words off.

The world comes back around as well as the pain in my chest, but it’s not the bullet wound that’s making me feel like I’m being shredded alive.

“We’ll get him,” Reaper says over the roar of blades as the chopper lands. “We’ll come back and get him. Do not fucking die on me, Strike. Do not fucking die. He’ll never forgive me.”

Chapter 39

Cora

When I open thebedroom door, finally having worked up enough nerve to face Delly, I see a naked man standing by the bed. Well, not entirely naked. He’s currently bent over, hiking his pants up over his hips, tucking his dick into his fatigues. My gaze snags on a large tattoo of five skulls across his back, one marked with a red gash. He turns toward the sound of my gasp, warm honey eyes moving up from Delly’s sleeping form on the bed to me.

Holy shit.

I open my mouth, but he slides over, pressing a finger to my lips, and I’m so stunned at the sight of Striker’s face that all I can do is huff out a breath. He grips my waist, hoisting me up, and I wrap my legs around his hips as he carries me to the bathroom. After he sets me on the counter, he shuts the door quietly and turns the light on. The room floods with pale yellow light, and I grip the edge of the counter, trying to control my breathing. Forcing myself to remember I’m upset with them asmuch as I’m relieved. They intended to send me back. Even if they didn’t know the details, they still knew something.

“Striker?” I don’t know why I say his name. It’s obviously him, but without the mask hiding his face, my mind can’t piece together the skull mask with the scar over the eye he always wears with the man standing in front of me with smooth flesh and a sculpted chest that begs to be touched.

No, not completely smooth. My eyes fall to the circular wound just above his heart. “It missed your heart by an inch,” I say.

His head drops, looking down at his chest, and his hand moves to the scar, his finger lightly grazing over the raised scar. That’s when I see more scars on his forearms.

“Your heart would have exploded if that bullet went any lower,” I say, unable to keep my mouth shut as I watch his brows knit and his jaw hardens. Maybe his heart did explode that day.

It must be shock. From the last few weeks, the remnants of spilling my guts to my kidnappers, telling Delly about Rune, and seeing his insanely handsome face for the first time. The tanned skin and abs that lead to the chevron of muscles dipping below his still open pants, the top of his dick peeking out.

“As you can see, it didn’t miss,” Striker says, pulling me out of my head long enough to focus on evening out my breathing. “He was just a shit shot.”

My eyes fly up to meet his.

“Who?”

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