He’s survived bullet wounds that would have killed far bigger men; he’s killed murderers and mobsters—monsters who wore nothing but human skins. He’s proven himself a fighter when he must be, a gentleman when he can be. For all the wolf inside him, he still has moments when he’s an absolute lamb. A warrior with a gentle heart.
Regardless of all the blood and battling, no one’s really sure at what point one of his kind can no longer make it back from death’s door.
And Wanda realizes she doesn’t want to be around when they finally learn how much is too much.
Her ex-partner—her superiors—they were right. She has gotten too close to all this. Which means the pressure’s on to keep things looking as normal as possible. “Stop fighting,” Wanda whispers, reaching for his shoulders.
He grunts and tries to pull his arms under himself. He struggles to rise.
Just.
Once.
More.
His broken arm buckles beneath his weight and with a howl equal parts frustration and pain he falls back to the dirt.
Leon reaches for Pietr, his eyes still fixed on Wanda. “Call the ambulance,” he suggests.
But she looks at him blankly as if the word ambulance is no longer within the scope of her vocabulary.
“Let us help you.” She slips a hand under Pietr’s arm and something inside him rattles, the noise rising a moment before it slips into a wheeze. Pietr coughs, spattering the ground by his head with spit and blood.
Leon takes his other arm. “Here we go … careful now…”
They pull him up, supporting him between them. He raises his head and winces—not at the physical pain that threatens to consume him but at the sight of the car flashing away out of the driveway. Out of his reach.
Pulling out of their grip, he stumbles forward a single step before his legs give out and he crashes to his knees. Wanda drops beside him, looping an arm around his waist. “Let us help you,” she insists.
He shakes his head. “Help me?” he whispers between the wheezing of his lungs. “You took her from me.” He looks at her, his eyes fierce, mismatched in the intensity of the red that betrays the firestorm raging within.
Head trauma, Wanda realizes, reaching out to examine his face, his skull.
“You made a liar out of me,” he snarls, pulling back from her touch. “God,” he moans, quivering beside her, his head down, shoulders shaking. “I couldn’t keep my promise.…”
Her hand slips away from his cheek. Her fingers trembling before her, Wanda marvels at the moisture glistening on their tips. “Oh, Pietr,” she whispers. “Oh. God. Pietr. Please. Don’t cry.”
But hearing her use his name after ignoring that any of his people had names only makes tears come faster.
“Leon. Help me get him inside,” Wanda orders.
“Shouldn’t we call the ambulance first?”
“NO.” The answer comes in unison. An ambulance manned by uninformed public servants is precisely the type of help Wanda and Pietr must avoid.
“Okay,” Leon concedes, stooping.
Arms linked around his waist, they help Pietr limp to the house. Inside they start to set him down on the couch, but he protests. “Nyet. I’m bleeding.”
“We need to call the ambulance,” Leon tries again.
“Nyet,” Pietr whispers. “Old towels, sheets?”
“I do not understand you, boy,” Leon admits, and he leaves Pietr, supported by Wanda.
“You can set the bones?” Pietr asks her, grinding the words out between startling spasms of pain. “It’s too difficult with only one working arm.”
“I’ll set them. But first I’m calling Max.”
Pietr nods. He winces as she shifts, withdraws her cell phone, and makes the call. Returning with an armful of sheets Leon follows Pietr’s haltingly given directions and covers the couch. With a groan and some help, Pietr lowers himself onto the protected surface.
“Hey, that cut above your eye’s not bleedin’ so bad,” Leon mutters. “And your face…” He looks at Wanda.
Her complete lack of surprise does not reassure him. Neither does her lengthy silence.
“Let’s set your arm,” she grumbles, looking away from Leon as she grabs Pietr’s wrist.
Leon scrubs a hand across his face. “You know how to—”
Wanda doesn’t answer, but braces a foot on the side of the couch and yanks until Pietr snarls. “Better?”
He tests the arm with his other hand, fingers sliding along the edge of muscle and tendon to prod at bone. He grunts approval.
“We should splint it. Don’t want it healing wrong,” she points out. “Max would break and reset it, right?”
Pietr pales at the thought. She’s right. Internal organs mend decently when left alone, but broken bone crawls toward its mate regardless of awkward angles.
And Pier’s brother Max is not the gentlest of nursemaids.
“Leon…,” Wanda begins, but he’s already gone in search of something to serve as a splint.
At what point, Wanda wonders, must she tell Leon the truth? That she’s not a reference librarian—not only a reference librarian? That she works for a company she thought was CIA but now … Their willingness to murder some children and cage others has her asking questions she doesn’t dare voice aloud.
Not quite yet.
“What about your legs?” Wanda asks. “You didn’t seem able to keep them under you on your own.”
Pietr closes his eyes, taking a mental accounting of the injuries he still feels—things not ready to mend or not ready to mend right.
Outside, a car races up the gravel drive and stops short.
“What now?!” Leon shouts as Max bounds through the doorway.
Shoving the curls that shadow his glinting blue eyes back from his face, Max glares at Wanda. “Step back.” He rounds the couch, taking her place, his eyes narrowing. Silent, he peers down at his younger brother, his jaw so tight it twitches.
Pietr opens his mouth, but Max simply says, “Explain things later. All I want to know is what’s broken. And if they shot you.”
They both remember the drama of the last fight far too freshly.
“What?” Leon’s eyebrows tug together. “Shot?”
“Wanda,” Max snaps.
Wanda moves over to Leon’s side, taking his arm and drawing him toward the kitchen.