Page 149 of Wyatt

And spotted her.

She lay curled against a tree, her knees drawn up, bleeding from her head, her arm, a terrible pool of blood on her shirt.

She’d turned her face away from the flames, her jaw gritted against the heat.

“Coco!”

His voice jerked her, but he wasn’t waiting.

A bush lit next to her, spot fires roaring between them, but Wyatt didn’t care.

“Wyatt!”

He wasn’t sure whose voice lifted behind him as he sprinted toward her.

He took a breath and dove into the furnace.

His still-wet clothes steamed as he knelt in front of her and scooped her up.

“Hang on, Cookie.” Then he sprinted back out through the flames. Fire licked his legs but couldn’t latch onto the wet material. He carried her beyond the fire, into the parking lot, to where York met them.

York had shucked his coat, wrapping it around her as Wyatt set her down.

Tate had gone to the SUV.

Wyatt knelt over her, not sure where to start.

She’d cut her head, but that seemed more like a pressure gash.

York took out a knife and rolled her over, tearing her arms free. She gasped, moaning as he moved her arm around. “She’s got a pretty bad gash—”

“My stomach—” She moved her hands over her body, and Wyatt caught them in one hand and moved them away as York lifted her shirt.

Blood ran from a deep, jagged wound just below her ribs, as if she’d been stabbed.

“Did he do this?”

She leaned her head back, gasping, and Wyatt cradled her against him.

“No—I broke the window—” She was breathing hard, clearly in pain. But she looked up, found his eyes. “You came for me.”

He stared at her. “Of course I did.”

Then, suddenly, she began to weep, her body shaking. “You came after me.”

Oh, Coco. “I should have come for you years ago.” He pressed his lips to her forehead, perilously close to weeping himself.

Tate landed on his knees next to them, zipping open a medical kit and pulling out a cloth. He pressed it over her wound. “Hang in there, Coco. Help is on its way.”

The sirens screamed closer, and in a moment, a firetruck peeled into the lot, followed by two more.

“Did you get him?”

“Yeah. He’s dead. Shot.”

She pressed her hand against his shirt. “You’re wet.”

“Long story. I’m okay.” He folded his hand over hers. “And you’re going to be okay too.” He followed his words by glancing at Tate.