She held onto his waist, eyes closed, bracing for impact. But he kept them upright and found a turnoff, veering onto a trail and slowing through overgrown foliage.
Woody branches scratched her bare legs as he eased them to a stop without crashing.
She jumped off and spun in a circle, scanning the surroundings.
Trees. More trees. So much green and buzzing insects and endless nature. They were in a fucking jungle, without doctors or medical supplies.
“What the actual fuck, Tiago?” She whirled on him. “Were you shot? Stabbed?”
He killed the engine, slid off the bike, and walked to a nearby clearing. “Just need to sit for a second.”
His gait was wrong, lacking his usual power and confidence. He stumbled into a lopsided step, and she raced to his side, hooking his arm over her shoulders and lowering him to the ground.
Kneeling before him, she shrugged off the backpack and inspected his face.
Clammy complexion, pained eyes, sinful lips, he looked so damn beautiful, even in agony.
“Where’s your phone?” She patted the front pockets of his jeans. “Need to call Boones.”
“Already sent him an alert. My phone has a tracker. He’ll find us.”
A smidgen of relief loosened her shoulders.
“I have to remove your jacket.” She yanked down the zipper.
The instant she wrangled it off his arms, her heart plunged to her sneakers.
Multiple stab wounds gouged his shoulder, and it looked like a bullet went through the side of his chest. And the blood… God, she could taste the gravity of it on her tongue.
No wonder he’d moved her arms to his waist when she mounted the bike.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” She ripped his t-shirt down the front, carefully removed it from his body, and shredded strips of it to use as bandages.
“The knife wounds are superficial, and the bullet just grazed my side.”
“Why is there so much blood?”
“You were going to run.”
The rapid change of subject stammered her breath, and she dragged her gaze to his. “What?”
“At the warehouse. You started out the garage door. But you came back. You chose me.” His voice broke on the last word, at odds with the smug look in his eyes.
“Don’t misunderstand me. I want my freedom back.” She tore open the backpack and dug through weapons, searching for medical supplies. “Do you have anything in here—?”
The click-click-click of metal yanked her attention to her wrist.
The open end of the handcuffs, which had hung from her arm a moment ago, was now shackled around his.
She pulled, and his hand came with it, snug within the cuff. Locked. “You did not just do that.”
“I’m not letting you go.” His eyes hooded, heavy with pain, but his timbre carried all the weight of a possessive, overbearing man.
“Where’s the key?”
“Don’t have it.”
“What if you die?” Outrage screeched into her voice.
“Not gonna die.”
“You’re bleeding all over the fucking place, and I don’t even know if the bullet is still in you.”
“Check the jacket.” He lowered to his back and dropped his unshackled arm across his forehead.
She snatched the pile of leather, swinging his cuffed hand around with hers as she hunted for a bullet hole.
There it was, a tiny tear in the back of the jacket. How had she missed that?
A knife had cut up his shoulder pretty good, but the leather wasn’t torn all to hell. The jacket must’ve been hanging open, which meant he’d zipped it later to hide the wounds from her.
Grinding her teeth, she ripped up the rest of his shirt and stared at the battlefield on his chest. “I don’t know what to do.”
“There’s a first-aid kit at the bottom of the backpack.”
He talked her through how to clean and dress the injuries. There was enough gauze to wrap the wounds, and his instructions were precise and calm. Given the number of scars on his body, he knew his way around an injury.
“How long before Boones arrives?” She wadded up the jacket and propped it under his head.
“Don’t know.” His voice took on an edge of pain. “An hour-ish. Maybe more.”
“What about Arturo?”
“He went to the desert with another guard. Need them there to look after Tate.”
Tiago could’ve just freed Tate and eliminated that complication, but this was neither the time nor place for that argument.
“Can we call someone else?” She used the extra pieces of the shirt to clean his mouth, cheeks, and neck.
“No.” He lay on his back and stared up at her, the look on his face not like a man who lost a lot of blood.
His tongue peeked out, wetting his lips, his gaze alert and watchful. Always watching, staring as if he were seconds from swallowing her whole.
“You must be hurting.” And delirious. She rummaged through the first-aid kit. “Do you have anything to dull the pain?”
“You.”
“Get real.”
“You are going to take the edge off.”
She let out a tight laugh and glanced down. He wasn’t even hard.