Page 47 of Thaw of Spring (Knife’s Edge, Alaska #2)

Christian came to flat on his stomach, one cheek pressed into the cold floor. The copper tang of blood filled his mouth. He pushed up to hands and knees, gritting his teeth. The sharp pain in his shoulder lit his vision white, but he didn’t stop.

His hand came away wet. The blood was his.

He looked toward the door. It stood wide open, wind curling inside.

Amka was gone. He swore. Loud and raw. His vision wavered when he shoved himself to his feet.

He stumbled to the kitchen counter and grabbed a towel, pressed it hard to the hole just under his collarbone.

The bullet had passed through muscle. He was lucky.

If it had gone half an inch lower, his lung would be done.

But luck didn’t matter now.

He yanked his phone free and called Brock.

“Hey—” Brock started.

“Got shot, and somebody took Amka from her house. I’m fine.

They’re in your truck. Call Damian and Ace, get everyone looking, and I’m going tracking.

” He clicked off and grabbed gauze and duct tape from the nearest drawer.

Slapped them over the worst of it. The world tilted again.

He gripped the counter to steady himself before heading outside.

Outside, the morning had turned quiet again, the kind of quiet that didn’t sit right.

He had to find her. God. How had he let himself get fucking shot? Was he that turned around about her that he’d forgot his own damn focus? He followed the prints down the porch steps. Blood smeared the edge of the wood. Not his. Amka’s. A streak where someone had dragged her across the dirt.

The scuff marks led to where Brock’s truck had been parked. Fresh tire tracks bit deep into the gravel, kicking up from the sudden acceleration.

He followed on foot, moving fast despite the fire in his shoulder.

The truck had gone north, toward the old fire road. A shortcut toward the valley. A good two miles of winding dirt before it met worn asphalt. He ran the distance. His chest burned, and he tasted blood again, but he didn’t stop. Couldn't stop.

The tracks finally veered off. Just before the switchback, they curved behind a stand of alders and stopped. Brock’s truck was there. Christian quickly searched it and found nothing but a bit of blood on the passenger seat. Amka’s. Had to be.

A second set of tires showed. Narrower, more aggressive pattern. SUV, maybe. Possibly a light pickup with off-road grip. The angle said she’d been moved fast. No blood on the ground now. Probably moved her to the second vehicle unconscious.

Christian pressed a hand to the earth where the tread turned. Still damp. Still fresh. They’d moved fast. He stood, chest burning. His shirt clung to him, soaked through on one side, the duct-taped gauze useless now. The pain in his torso flared again, sharp and biting. He ignored it.

He turned in a slow circle, scanning the tree line.

Then he cupped his hands around his mouth and let out a sharp, rising whistle.

Waited.

The wind moved through the branches. A raven called overhead. Nothing else.

He whistled again. Louder this time. A raw edge clung to the sound.

Silence held for three long seconds.

Then, crashing brush to the east. Four-legged movement.

Tika burst from the trees at a dead sprint, tongue lolling, fur bristled. His mismatched eyes locked on Christian, and he didn’t stop until he reached him. He skidded to a halt, nose down, breath coming fast.

Christian dropped to one knee again and gripped the thick ruff of fur. “Good boy,” he muttered, the tightness in his throat burning worse than the hole in his chest. “We’ve got her trail. Let’s finish this.”

Tika turned and sniffed the dirt, pacing the edge of the second set of treads.

Christian followed, scanning the ground.

There was a drag mark. Slight. A vehicle had trampled the pine needles. No blood now, but the direction was clear.

He moved fast, boots churning mud, gaze on the disturbed path. He couldn’t believe he’d tried to brush her off, and she’d laughed at him.

Knowing they belonged together.

And he’d fucked it up. Had let himself be shot and her be taken. She had to be all right. He needed to tell her everything—especially how he felt about her.

Tika ran beside him, nose low, tail straight behind him. They cut into the old logging road, the tires having spun deep here. Water had pooled in the ruts, and rocks jutted up in scattered clumps. The vehicle was still moving fast. Maybe thirty, thirty-five. Too fast for rough terrain.

He followed the track into thicker forest, branches scraping his arms. The sky had clouded again, light dimming. But the trail was solid.

He kept going. Pain shot down his arm. His knees ached. Sweat stung his eyes. None of it mattered.

She was out there.

He would find her.

“I’m coming for you,” he said aloud, voice rough.

Tika growled and pressed ahead again.

Christian followed, boots steady in the mud. He would track them until the road gave out. Until his legs did. Or until he lost too much blood.

His vision wavered and he blinked several times to focus.

He had to find her.