Page 122 of Pack Me Up

Exhale.

Move.

My uninjured hand whips from under me, gun cocked and ready, and I squeeze the trigger. I don’t aim for his chest or his head. I remember the way Hunter grinned at the paper targets, how he said, “hit ‘em where it counts.” So I do.

The shot is a crack, louder than thunder. The recoil jerks my shoulder, but the pain is distant, nothing compared to the rush of fire through my veins.

The bullet hits him low and right in his groin. There’s a second where he doesn’t register it, just blinks, confused, like he can’t believe what just happened. Then he howls. High, wild, inhuman. The gun drops from his hand, and he doubles over, both hands clutching himself, blood spilling dark down his jeans, right where his dick used to be.

The world unfreezes.

Saint lunges. His fist connects with the Loomer’s face, shattering his nose. Blood explodes in a spray, and the Loomer drops to his knees, sobbing and cursing. Saint doesn’t stop. He grabs the man by the throat, squeezing until the Loomer’s face goes red, then purple.

Cody’s face is chalk white, blood painting a bright red map down his arm and side. He grins, teeth bloody, and says, “You fucking did it, wild girl. You—” and then he’s coughing, doubled over, but the pride in his face is brighter than the moon.

Saint has the Loomer leader pinned, his knee on the guy’s chest. The leader is still clutching his ruined crotch, making a sound like a dying animal. Saint leans in, voice a guttural snarl: “You ever look at her again, I’ll rip your fucking head off.”

The Loomer spits at him, a spray of blood and saliva. “Not over. Never over,” he gurgles.

Saint cocks his head, curious. “Wanna bet?”

He picks up the leader’s gun, flips it, and cracks the man across the jaw with the grip. There’s a sick thump, and the Loomer’s head lolls sideways, eyes rolling up.

I lay flat, my cheek pressed to the road, shaking so hard I think my bones will rattle out of my skin. I’m alive. I’m alive. I’m—

Saint is first to kneel, hands quick but careful, peeling my head up from the pavement like it’s made of eggshell. My scalp’s numb, but I still feel every brush of his thumb as he checks for the cut above my eyebrow, swiping away blood with a strip of his t-shirt. Fox slides in next to us, blue eyes wide and all the usual jokes burned out of him. He tugs my sleeve up, hissing when he sees the cuts running down my arm, blood sticky where it’s pooled in the glass.

“I’ve got it,” Fox says. His voice shakes. “Just hold still, okay, Brit?” He pulls a glass shard out with tweezers from the car’s first aid kit, which I didn’t even see him grab. There’s so much blood it looks fake. He presses a bandage over the worst spot, hands steady, then goes back in for the next one.

Cody is half-conscious, sprawled on the ground. Hunter straddles him, pressing a rolled-up hoodie to the bullet graze on Cody’s leg.

Cody groans, tries to sit up, but Hunter holds him down with surprising gentleness. “Stay put,” he says. “Brittney needs you. I need you.” He’s usually a joke machine, but there’s nothing funny about him now. He’s all grim eyes and shaking hands.

Colton paces, his limp more pronounced, worry lines cut deep in his face. He keeps looking from Cody to me, then back, like he’s waiting for one of us to explode or fade out. He kneels at my feet, presses his forehead to my shin, and lets out a long, ragged breath. “You scared the shit out of me,” he whispers, voice hoarse.

Saint props me up in his lap, arms around my shoulders. I can feel his pulse against my back, a drumbeat trying to keep time with mine. He tucks my hair behind my ear, glass flakes scattering to the ground. “You’re safe now,” he murmurs, soft enough I almost miss it. “You’re safe.”

The bond is a river under my skin. It’s warm, relentless, surging with worry, pride, and fear. I can feel it from all of them. Even with my eyes closed, I sense the way they gather around me, as if their bodies alone can keep the world at bay.

I want to say something, to tell them I’m okay, but my tongue’s thick and my throat is full of sand. When I try to talk, the words slur together, and the edges of the world go gray.

Saint squeezes me, harder, grounding me. “Don’t you dare, Brittney. Stay with us.”

Fox leans close, bandaging another wound. His hands never stop moving, but his face is tight with panic. “Talk to me,” he pleads. “Tell me a secret. Say anything.”

I try to think of something funny, but all I manage is, “My ribs hurt,” which makes Fox choke out a broken laugh.

“Good,” he says. “Means you’re still in there.”

My eyelids keep drooping. The crash of adrenaline is gone, leaving only the hollow behind. Everything’s slowing down.

The last thing I see is all of them, my pack, huddled around me on the broken road. Hands on my face, arms around my waist, every one of them holding me together.

“You’re ours, Britt,” Saint says, voice a whisper. “Always.”

Colton kisses my ankle, then my knee. “We’re never letting you go.”

Hunter’s smile is crooked, but real. “You’re the best thing we ever fought for.”