Page 67 of Sinful
The hand is the obvious injury, but there are burns on his torso, cuts on his arms and legs, bruising that suggests internal damage.
He needs a hospital.
But we can't take him to a hospital.
Too many questions. Too much law enforcement involvement.
"Can he walk?" I ask.
"I don't know. Dad, can you stand?"
Ivar tries, gets about halfway up before his legs give out.
I catch him, take his weight—what's left of it. He's lost maybe thirty pounds from trauma and dehydration.
"I've got him. Helle, you lead the way out. Check for more guards."
She nods, reloads her .380 with shaking hands, and moves toward the door.
I follow with Ivar, one arm around his waist, supporting most of his weight.
Outside, I can see headlights in the distance.
Multiple vehicles, moving fast down the dirt road toward the property.
Backup.
"That's Runes," I say. "We're okay. Just keep moving."
We make it outside just as the first bikes roar up thedriveway—Runes and Fenrir leading, followed by a truck and more members on bikes behind them.
The truck skids to a stop and Runes is off his bike before it fully stops moving.
He takes one look at Ivar and his face goes pale.
"Get him in the truck! Now! Carefully!"
Two Raiders of Valhalla members—both big guys, one with medical training judging by the bag he's carrying—take Ivar from me.
They lift him as gently as possible, carry him to the truck bed where someone's already spread blankets and prepared a makeshift stretcher.
Helle moves to climb in after him.
I catch her arm. "Helle?—"
She spins, and before I can finish the sentence, she's kissing me.
Hard. Desperate. Tasting like blood and gunpowder.
Her hands fist in my cut, pulling me down to her level.
My hands go to her waist automatically, holding her steady—or maybe holding myself steady, I can't tell anymore.
The kiss is rough, graceless, fueled by adrenaline and the razor-thin edge between life and death we just walked.
It says everything we can't say out loud.
We're alive. We survived. Thank you. Don't leave me.
