Page 3 of Lupo

"There's a man, Mama. He won't wake up."

My mind races through possibilities, each one worse than the last. Someone from the village? One of the workers from the vineyard down the road? Or worse, much worse, someone sent by Draco?

"Go inside," I tell Elena, gripping her shoulders. "Right now. Lock the door and don't open it for anyone but me. Do you understand?"

Her bottom lip trembles. "Is the sleeping man bad?"

"I don't know, baby. But I need you safe. Go. Now."

She nods and runs toward the house, clutching her rabbit. I watch until she's inside, until I hear the lock click, then I turn toward the olive grove.

My father's old hunting knife is in the barn. I move quickly, quietly, grabbing it from the workbench and gripping it tight as I step into the dappled shade of the trees.

It takes me a moment to see him.

He's collapsed against the base of an ancient olive tree, half-hidden by the gnarled roots. Dark hair. Tall, even crumpled on the ground. Expensive clothes, a black shirt torn and stained with blood, dark slacks covered in dirt.

And blood. So much blood.

It's dried on the side of his face, matted in his hair, streaked down his neck. His right eye is swollen shut, his jaw bruised purple. His breathing is shallow, barely visible.

I should run. I should grab Elena and whatever we can carry and disappear before he wakes up. But I don't move.

Because I recognize what I'm looking at. The expensive clothes. The build, broad shoulders, strong arms. It’s the body of a man who's both comfortable with violence and the target of it.

This is my world.

The world I ran from.

And this man is dying.

I take a step closer, the knife still in my hand. He doesn't stir. Doesn't react when I crouch beside him, when I press my fingers to his throat to find a pulse.

It's there. Weak but steady.

His face is a mess of bruises and dried blood, but underneath, he's handsome in a harsh way. Sharp jaw, straight nose that's been broken at least once before. Even unconscious and broken, there's something commanding about him. Something that makes my instincts scream danger.

"Who are you?" I whisper, knowing he can't answer.

I should call someone. The police. An ambulance. He needs a hospital, needs stitches or surgery probably, needs more help than I can give him.

But if I call, they'll ask questions. They'll want my information. They'll create a record, a trail that leads straight to this farm.

Straight to Elena.

My hands shake as I touch his shoulder, giving him a small push. "Can you hear me?"

Nothing.

I push harder. "Wake up. You need to wake up."

His eyelid—the one that isn't swollen shut—flutters. A low sound escapes his throat, something between a groan and a growl.

"Can you stand? Can you walk?"

His eye opens, unfocused and glassy. He stares at me like he's seeing through me, through the trees, through everything. His lips move but no sound comes out.

"I need to move you," I tell him, though I'm not sure he understands. "I can't leave you here. Can you help me?"